We Are Broken
by Hoodfabulous
Summary: We are all broken inside, walking around with our heads held high. The masks we wear can't hide, how truly empty we are inside. We are broken.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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_Classic Ivory_.

That's the name of the long-worn foundation I smear on the tips of my fingers. I stare into my deep brown eyes in the mirror, losing myself in the depths of the darkness. Shaking myself out of my stupor, I rub the foundation over my cheekbones, across the bridge of my nose, then skimming my fingers across my forehead. The image staring back at me is a girl at war.

And I am.

I'm a girl at war … at war with myself.

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Daily writing challenge to keep my mind sharp.

Song prompt for the next few chapters - 'Being Pretty Ain't Pretty,' as sung by 'The Pistol Annies.'

Chapters will be 100-200 words. Prompts will be songs/quotes/random daily words. I promise there'll be a plot somewhere inside.

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	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer__: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended._

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We Are Broken

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The pastel pink lipstick is next. I dot it across my lips, being careful not to smear. Pressing a Kleenex against those lips, I feel hollow inside.

A _pretty_ girl, people say.

She's so _pretty_, they murmur.

Makeup is my mask. It's a mask to cover freckles and blemishes, childhood playground scars and invisible flaws. And at the end of the day I'll wash it away, squeezing the washcloth beneath the cool water of the faucet, watching as an hour's worth of vanity circles down the drain in a swirl … a swirl of classic ivory.

If only it covered the ugliness I feel inside.

I slip on my favorite pair of low heels, the ones that rarely cause me to stumble and fall, the ones with the heel caps damaged from the wear and tear of the church's gravel parking lot.

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	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer__: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended._

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**We Are Broken**

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I sip my coffee on the balcony of my home, the very same home my husband Eric built with his own hands, his own blood, sweat and tears. The sun rises and I stare into it, blinded by the orange globe bursting forth across the horizon. I stare into it until my eyes water from the pain, until the tears tickle the corner of my eyes and threaten to spill over, taking my carefully applied eyeliner and mascara with it.

Blinking rapidly I allow them to flow; tears. Tears make me feel something. The sting of pain reminds me that I'm alive.

_Alive._

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	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer__: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended._

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**We Are Broken**

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I grab the bottle of Jack as I leave the bedroom.

_Our_ bedroom.

I pass the bedroom painted in blue, airplanes suspended from the ceiling. The sting is there, piercing through my heart, slicing through the hairline fractures and cracks, wedging them open with the silvery blade of memories that I choose to ignore.

The burn of liquid is a sweet relief. The cool bottle pressed to my lips brings a rare, warm comfort.

I choke it down as I wander down the stairs: the whiskey, the memories, the hurt. I smother it all in three long gulps, dropping the now empty bottle carelessly on the floor, barely aware of the cracking sound of glass as I leave my home behind.

_Our_ home.

Yet ... it's not. It's not a home anymore.

It's not a home at all.

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	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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I step over the threshold and pull the door tightly behind me, purposely not locking the door. My neighborhood is nice; safe. There's no monsters lurking around, darting from house to house robbing, stealing, killing.

No, the true monster lives within each of us, gingerly lingering beneath surface of a well-polished exterior, shrouded behind tight smiles and polite, quietly spoken words.

We're all monsters inside. Some of us choose to disguise that monster. Some of us display it, unconcerned with hiding behind our masks of tolerance and indifference. And some of us … some of us keep him hidden, but he constantly threatens to slip through the cracks of our broken hearts.

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Daily word for next four chapters - gingerly

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	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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I slip into my car, shoving my thoughts aside. I shouldn't be driving after drinking the Jack, but I console myself with the thought that it wasn't much. It was only a few swallows of whiskey. I'm not drunk.

It's a lie. I'm always drunk.

After turning the engine, I pull into reverse, my watery eyes glancing in the rearview mirror. The tires spin slightly before I slam on the brake and take a deep, shaky breath, my throat dry as I swallow. I ease down the tree-lined drive, hit the road, and stare straight ahead as the countryside blurs by in a constant smudge of vivid green, my favorite color.

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	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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The sound of a Kentucky bluegrass ballad resonates from the speakers of my car. I fumble with the buttons on my steering wheel, the sound of my ancestors' voice shattering my soul from the speakers.

I hate music.

The car goes silent as I find the proper button. The only sound is my high-dollar tires hitting the paved road.

_Whomp, whomp, whomp._

It's a steady, constant rhythm, and I wonder why things just can't be quiet, why things just can't be still.

Nothing is ever still.

Things crawl around in my head, digging and scratching, refusing to be ignored. It's the monster … the monster of thought: the monster of the past, present, and future.

"What future?" I laugh, the sound escaping as a bitter, cynical chuckle.

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To answer some questions, yes this is in BPOV. I'll always alert you when/if the POV changes to EPOV.

Yes, this is a slow burn. It will take time. They both have stories that need to be told.

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	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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I see the church ahead, pristine white with a pale baby-blue tin roof. It stands out majestically against the glowing green Kentucky foothills, but it's just an illusion. It's something pretty to look at from afar. It's me, pretty on the outside, but full of demons and monsters, and if the horde of evil beings have a chairperson that person would be my mother.

Renee Swan.

I bite the insides of my mouth as I pull into the parking lot, parking the silver Caddy at an exaggerated slow pace. Renee's Mercedes is nowhere to be found and I close my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I silently thank the Lord for whatever event has hindered my mother's arrival at church, because I hate her.

I hate her, but no more than she already hates me.

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	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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I sit on the church pew, careful to not let my dress slide from one shoulder. It's the shoulder that holds my heart, his heart, the heart tattoo with a name and a date that I wear in memory of him, my child, my precious baby. I can only imagine the whispers and stares of the elderly ladies sitting behind me if they catch a glimpse of that tattoo. I'd be an abomination, destroying this temple of a body that the Lord died for.

If only they knew … if only they knew that I destroy it slowly, day by day, and I don't care, because I'm no longer living for myself.

I'm no longer living at all. I'm existing, just mass of bones, tissue, and organs, all twisted and jumbled up inside with empty thoughts and feelings.

Just existing.

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	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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I know the exact moment my mother enters the church building.

She's perfume and prose, neutral stockings, leather heels, and a rustle of a church program atop a well-worn family bible. The smile she wears is kind. It's completely fake, but kind, nonetheless. I immediately feel my haunches tense, as though I'm junkyard dog preparing for a fight, and maybe I am. If I'm a junkyard dog living off scraps and sleeping in broken-down cars, she's a poodle resting on a million dollar pillow, with a gold leash, and painted nails.

My father follows sheepishly behind her and her six-hundred dollar dress. His smile is bright, like the sun. Renee is a mottled cloud that he peeks at me from behind. I shoot him a tight smile in return. It's practiced. Comfortable, yet not. Maybe _familiar_ would be the better term.

There is nothing fake about my father. He's a genuinely good man from his head down to his boots. After all these years you'd think _he_ would have rubbed off on her.

You'd think.

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Word of the day- mottled

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	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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"Your dress is wrinkled, you smell like booze, and for the love of God, go fix your face."

She says all this between clenched teeth, her thin red lips spread open wide to reveal perfectly white teeth as she smiles demurely and waves at the preacher.

Glancing down at my dress I see what she sees. There's wrinkles, a result of shoving clothes erringly from the dryer and directly into a laundry basket as I load the dryer once more. Those clothes may sit there for days, wadded up in the basket before I remove them, toss them in the dryer with a wet rag, and carelessly turn on the dial. The wrinkles loosen and some may fade, yet they never fully go away.

Nothing ever fully goes away.

"It does it you work at it, my dear."

My father's steely grey eyes stare back at my surprised ones as I realize I've muttered my last thought aloud. Those eyes are lined with age and wisdom, and I know I should heed his advice, in all aspects of my life.

I just don't have the will to do much of anything anymore.

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Sorry for the long wait. Working a full-time job blows, but it's required, unless I wanna be homeless or die. Wow. I'm little Ms. Sunshine today! LOL! Will try to give you more updates throughout the day. If you want them? Show me some lurve!

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	12. Chapter 12

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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"You're a mess."

She's right.

The reflection in the church restroom is a girl with mussed mousey-brown hair, wide brown eyes edged in red, and mascara stains smeared near the corners.

I yank a few brown paper towels from the dispenser perched on the wall, wad them up, and hold them under the faucet. The water is cool on my face as I wipe the dark residue away, and I take a moment to relish it, the coolness of it all.

It feels nice.

I toss the now useless paper towels in the nearby garage can, stumble a bit on my favorite heels, close my eyes, and take a ragged breath. Forcing myself into a more sober state would be helpful, yet impossible. Still, I close my eyes for a moment to gather my jumbled thoughts, then return to the pew. I cringe at the massive exasperated sigh my mother releases as she's forced to tuck her legs to the side to allow me to ease on by.

Instead of paying attention to the minister during services I focus on her, almost always on her. My mind travels back through the years to the times when I struggled to please her, wanting nothing but her love, wishing for her affection, yet never receiving it.

I'm a failure to her. I'll never be him.

I'll never be Jasper.

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	13. Chapter 13

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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My little brother's absence is something ignored by my parents, although if I were absent my mother would be sure to call me immediately after church services to bawl me out. With Jasper … well, let's just say this is expected.

He's always been the golden child, the boy with a wide smile and laughing eyes. He shoves the dreary aside with ease, and is always the life of the party. I longed to be him for so many years, yet didn't want to be anything like him at all. He hides his demons in his own ways, choosing laughter and smirks where I choose solitude and booze.

I guess the laughter is more acceptable than the tears … the emptiness, the inability to mesh with the rest of society.

I'm not sure how he does it, smile that is. It physically hurts when I do it, the falseness of it all.

Jasper's an illusion of happiness when there is none.

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Last one of the day. I heart you all.

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	14. Chapter 14

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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People linger around as church services end. The ladies quietly laugh and smile at one another, chatting about their children and grandchildren. My mother stands beside one group bearing a tight smile. I wonder if she feels as out-of-place as I do in that moment.

Does she feels the never-ending void of those who have left us, the absence of their presence still startling from time to time, as though they just perished that very morning, as though they could still walk through the doors at any moment?

"Isabella," a warm voice speaks, startling me from my thoughts. "Did you enjoy the sermon?"

Reverend Cheney, our long-time minister, stands before me. His once ebony hair is now peppered with age, the gray strands of wisdom striking against his glossy dark hair.

I bite my lip, not wanting to lie in the Lord's church. She still lingers somewhere in there, somewhere deep inside … the girl I once was, the girl who could once quote passage after passage from the bible. And I can't find it in me to lie to this man.

So I don't.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I need to give no explanation.

His warm eyes know that I wasn't there, that this isn't me, but a shell of me, of the person who no longer exists.

"Reverend," my mother coos, grasping his hands in hers. "What a wonderful sermon! We thoroughly enjoyed it."

"I'm so happy to hear that, Renee," he responds, shooting me a secret wink as my mother shoots me a pensive smile. "Especially since I wish to personally ask your daughter to join the ladies ministry program I spoke of at the end of service."

My mother's face grows pale. Her lips turn white. It's the most emotion besides anger that I've seen from my mother in ages. For the first time in months something has sparked my interest. I give Reverend Cheney my full attention, raising one eyebrow in question.

"Ministry program?"

"Yes," he smiles. "Ministering to the local inmates at the county jail."

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Quote is actually a bible passage:

Matthew 6: 14-15 (NKJV)

"For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.

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Chapters may be a bit longer, just so I don't drive you all insane. Is that okay? lol

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	15. Chapter 15

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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"Reverend, I hardly think a young lady such as my daughter has any business spending time in the … penitentiary," my mother laughs, the sound pained and tight. "No offense, of course. Would you allow your daughter, Angela, to spend her free time among a bunch of … hardened criminals?"

"No offense taken," the older man responds smoothly, a playful smirk pulling at his lips. "The county jail is hardly a 'penitentiary,' Renee. Isabella would never be in danger of any harm. There will be an officer present during each visit. It will be one-on-one counseling with each inmate. The inmates she will minister to are there for petty crimes. Misdemeanors. Nothing like murder or rape."

My mother winces as his casual use of the words 'murder' and 'rape,' her already pale face blanching even more.

"And, to answer your question, yes. I _am_ 'allowing' Angela to minister to the inmates, although I like to think she's old enough to make her own decisions regarding things of this nature. She is twenty-six years old, after all … the same age as Isabella, no?"

My mother says nothing, choosing to give him a fake smile, her thin lips immediately falling into one hard line the second his eyes leave her face.

"You'll start tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock," the minister instructs me with a gentle smile, handing me a stack of papers and ignoring my open, silently protesting mouth. "Don't be late. The inmates get a little cranky concerning tardiness."

My mother gasps at his words as he gives a joyful chuckle, muttering beneath his breath how people can_ never take a joke_. Her cold eyes meet mine. They narrow and bore into my soul. She says everything without uttering one single word.

_You will **not** attend this ministry service. _

_You **will** find an excuse to back out._

She storms past me in a cloud of perfume and the sound of satiny hose squeaking against her thighs. I gaze down at the pamphlets in my hands, reading the words inked across the stark white paper.

_"For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you."_

Clutching the paper tightly between my fingers, I glance above the baptistery, at the crucifix etched above the pool of water. For the first time in God-knows-when I feel a flutter of something akin to excitement creep into my bones. Was this is? Was this a sign from God? A message from my son or my husband, to ... forgive? Isn't forgiveness the key to forging on in life?

Slipping the pamphlets between the pages of my Bible I'm enthralled, filled with the possibility of moving forward, of doing something for myself for once, anxiously looking forward to something besides the bottom of a bottle of whiskey.

I'm anxious for tomorrow.

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Is Edward an inmate? Would you like him to be? Thoughts?

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	16. Chapter 16

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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**EPOV**

It's always the same dream, each and every night, always starting the same way.

But it's not so much a dream as it is a memory.

I wake up early one morning, grab a granola bar, and kiss my wife, Kate, on the cheek. She smiles up at me, her crystal blue eyes crinkling at the edges. I make a routine of watching her leave the house before me in the morning, shaking my head as she absently grabs an apple from the decorative bowl situated on the bar as she leaves for work.

She never eats those damn apples.

I always find them in her car: under her seat, tossed in the back floorboard, even in the glovebox and console sometimes. After six months of marriage I've learned to check her car every day, unless I wanted to smell the inevitable smell of fruit rotting in her car.

Kate was funny like that, silly with her little quirks, like the way she'd only stop at one specific gas station to fill her tank up. I can count on two hands the number of times I had to bring gas to her as she sat stranded on the side of the road, her sheepish, me enraged.

If I could turn back the hands of time, I'd do anything to bring my wife a red plastic jug full of gas once more. I'd pick her up_ every day_ from the side of the road, grinning at her with a teasing smile if God would give me the chance.

In the dream Kate leaves for the day, grabbing her bag as she leaves for her job as a teacher's assistant. I glance up in surprise a few minutes later as she returns with a frown on her face, murmuring that she, yet again, forgot to fill up the car before work.

I toss her the keys to my truck and give her an exasperated stare. She says nothing as she easily catches the keys and disappears through the door, head down low. I sigh before taking her car to the local gas station to fill it up, the station right down the fucking road, the one she refuses to use.

In the dream my boss calls my cell as I pump the gas into her car. He's barking in my ear that I need to _hurry the hell up_ and get to work. Apparently one of the other guys hadn't shown up at the job site, leaving them one man short, and it was about to fucking rain, so I needed to _get on the ball_.

I end the call, shoving the cell in my pocket and ripping the receipt from the pump. I'm in a rush now. Jobs are scarce and I've only worked for that construction company a couple of months. Just as I cap off the tank a clap of thunder cracks across the sky and the mist begins to swirl around me.

I gun it down the road, the worn tires slinging up rainwater. I speed up as I hit the east part of town, my boss's words ringing in my ears. The east side is the more upscale part of town, the side of town where the nicest parks and best schools are located. Perky little trees and fat scrubs line different areas running along the road, the greenery so massive that it obscures people's view of things from time to time.

My cell rings once again, and I know, I just _fucking know_ that it's my dickhead boss calling once more. I fumble around in my jeans, glancing down as I do so. That's when the dream changes vastly. That's when I hear it all: a horn blowing, tires skidding, glass shattering, metal crunching, children screaming. And then nothing.

Nothing but silence.

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This is not a religious story, per se, but I will mention religion from time to time.

I've been sucking at review replies, but it's only because I have a ton of wips and I'm super busy writing. I read and adore each and every review y'all leave me. I cherish them. If you have any questions that I don't answer in your review, feel free to PM me or hit me up on Facebook.

I love to hear your thoughts. Leave them for me, please.

As usual, I heart you all.

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	17. Chapter 17

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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**EPOV**

"E, man. Wake up," a worried voice demands.

My eyes snap open, my vision slightly fuzzy with sleep. The panic lingers, that insurmountable pressure of gripping pain, wrapping around my sternum, creeping up my neck, and choking my throat.

I hurriedly rise from where I lay, and groan as I smack my head on something hard. Rubbing the rising bump to the top of my head, I hunch my upper body, glance up, and remember exactly where I'm at: the county jail in Forks, Kentucky, bottom bunk, directly situated beneath the bed of one Mike Newton.

"You sounded like you were dying, man," said bunkmate proclaims from where he crouches nearby.

"Bad dream," I gasp, rubbing at my chest, attempting to will away the agonizing tightness.

"You want me to call the guard? He can get the nurse for ya."

"No, I'm fine," I choke out, closing my eyes, repeatedly breathing in through my nose, and out through pursed lips. "I'll be fine."

"You wanna talk about it?

I shake my head, refusing to acknowledge the newfound terror uprooted by his simple request to share my thoughts.

Mike gives me a contemplative look as he nods. Then he walks over to the water-spot stained metal toilet, and proceeds to take a piss. I avert my eyes, the familiar unsettled feelings creeping in.

One thing I miss the most about the outside world, other than my wife...er, _ex-wife_, is privacy. There is no privacy in jail. I'm watched when I take a piss. I'm watched as I take a shit. I'm watched while I eat my stale-ass bologna sandwich for supper. Fifteen minute visitation with my mother? Watched as though any second I'll jump over the presswood table and snap her neck. And when I'm not being watched? I'm watching others as they do these things. Why? Because there's nothing else to_ fucking do_ in this joint.

"You know what my mamma always said?" Mike asks, at least having the decency to wash his hands in the metal sink that's attached to the nasty-as-fuck metal toilet before drying them on his standard issued black and whites. "God gives you dreams to tell you things. He's passing a message to you, dude."

"Message read loud and clear," I grumble, sliding my legs from the bed and into a sitting position, ducking my head below the top bunk. "He's punishing me for what I did by making me relive it every night."

"No, not punishment," Mike argues, plopping down on the dirty floor and grinning up at me. "He's trying to tell you something. He's sending you a message."

"What sort of message?"

"Hmm…"

Mike thinks this over, lightly tapping his squant fingers against his pale chin. The kid just turned eighteen, but he looks about sixteen. His skin's so pasty and sweaty that he could pass for a tuberculosis patient. There's a childlike innocence about him that sends shivers racing up my spine, especially since learning that _messing with children_ is the very reason he's currently residing in the county jail.

"Forgiveness," he blurts, so sudden, and with such innocent joy, that it causes me to jump.

"Forgiveness? Whose forgiveness?"

"Your own," he replies, daintily plucking at his limp blonde hair, grinning at me behind watery blues eyes. "That's why you should sign up for the ministry service. If you won't talk _to me_ about your past, maybe you'll talk to one of those _Christian ladies_ who visit …"

"No offence, Lester," I laugh, the sound a stranglehold in my chest. "But I doubt I'll be taking advice from _you_ anytime soon."

Mike halts the plucking at the mention of his nickname, but instead of growing angry he simply shrugs, stands, and climbs up on the top bunk. I feel no stab of guilt or sliver of regret from my slip of my tongue. The truth is, the guy makes me sick. But I'm the only inmate the guards feel safe enough placing him with, so here we are, sharing a life together, at least… for now.

_Oh, what a life._

As I lay back down on the bed and stare up at Mike's stained mattress sagging against the metal mesh, I mull over his words. I've lived with anger and regret for so fucking long. I've never given much thought about forgiveness, doubting that the infliction I caused against an innocent woman would ever be forgiven, but as I lay here I can't help but ponder it. That's all there is to do here, really. Lay and think. Eat and think. Piss and think. Read and think.

Breath.

Think.

The longer I think about the ministry service, the better it sounds. Anything has to be better than sitting in this tiny cell _thinking_.

"I'll do it," I tell Mike, the words falling from my mouth with an escaping breath. "But not because I'm expecting anything to come out of it. I'm just fucking _bored_."

Mike let's out an amused chuckle from his bunk above. I can imagine his upturned grin as he says, "Whatever you say, my dear Edward. Whatever you say."

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'Lester, Lester, the child molester.' This is something my husband sings out whenever we see a creepy, shifty looking fellow. Smh.

Are we ready for these two to meet? Isn't Mike super creepy? *shudder*

I heart you all.

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	18. Chapter 18

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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**EPOV**

The cold room I sit in bathed in a dim-gray color, but it seems like everything around here is gray.

The bunk bed I toss and turn in at night is gray, the sink and toilet attached to one another in my jail cell is a steely gray, the folding chair I'm sitting in at this very moment is a chipped gray.

Sometimes I wonder if the constant flow of gray is a type of state-issued psychological torture for us inmates. We've already fucked up our lives, wound up in incarcerated, forced to surround ourselves with other broken men, and a now never-ending blur of dismal colors as well.

I'm slouched in a chipped-gray chair in a small room awaiting the 'Christian lady' that Mike has so fondly referred to, although I'm unsure if 'Legs' or 'Brown Eyes' will be ministering to me today. Those are the nicknames Mike has given the ladies, and I doubt the women are very appreciative of his terms of endearment.

Seth, the officer assigned to the _thrilling_ duty of sitting in during these lessons, sits slouched in his chair as well. He scrubs his hands over his face, then catches me watching him. He shoots me a toothy grin that stands out against his dark, Native American skin.

"You ready for a little religion, Cullen?" he cracks with a grin.

I shake my head and chuckle. Seth is a good kid … a little wet behind the ears, but still a good kid. He has an uncanny ability to connect with the inmates, yet still hold the authority assigned to him. Not many can say the same.

"Anything's better than sitting in a cell all day listening to Mike," I reply, snickering when he cringes.

Set leans forward, elbows on knees, glancing at the open doorway before dropping his voice in a conspiring manner.

"Once you see these girls … I promise you won't regret accepting the Lord into your life."

He leans back, wagging his thick, black eyebrows suggestively. I chuckle, shaking my head once more, but the sound of clicking heels against concrete causes my laughter to die away. Uneasiness creeps over me. I watch the open doorway with a mixture of interest and tribulation.

Billy, a tall, burly guard comes into view, his normally solemn face soft with an open smile as he speaks to his companion. I study the young woman at his side intently, starting at her expensive shoes, my eyes drifting up her toned, tan legs, over the bright, floral dress she wears.

My assessment pauses once I reach her breasts. They're full and perky, perfectly round and unintentionally emphasized by the clothing she wears. No, the sad kindness on her face as she whispers to Billy proves she's not the type of person to purposely draw attention to herself.

Dark waves of honey and chocolate colored hair spills past her shoulders. Those curved up lips … they're full and a delicious pink, with straight, white teeth appearing behind them occasionally. The woman's eyes are so dark they're almost black, and morose. Those eyes are _so_ sad behind her timid smile as she converses with the guard. And when she looks at me...like she's looking at me now…all the air is sucked from the room ... from my lungs.

The Bible and workbooks in her hands slip from her fingers, spilling across the cold, gray floor. The pink blush of her cheeks languidly falls away, giving her skin a ghastly glow. She grows rigid, as do I. The two of us stare at one another for an undetermined amount of time before Seth clears his throat, effectively breaking the spell.

"Cullen, don't you know how to treat a lady?" he ask from where he sits.

Seth crosses his arms over his chest, glances down at the book and papers she's dropped, and then shoots me a wink.

I'm on the floor in an instant, picking up the loose pieces of paper, the workbooks, the Bible. Kneeling on one knee, I gaze up at her, at those pouty lips, slack with stunned disbelief, those dead eyes, more alive in those few minutes that I've ever seen over the past few years.

Yes, the past few years. I've seen this woman before. I've seen her face on the news, her photos splashed across the front of the newspaper. I've secretly watched her give speeches at the city council meetings, begging for wider streets, slower speed limits, and caution lights outside of schools and daycare facilities, but this is the first time the two of us have met since the accident. This is the first time we've met since the wreck I was involved in that took everything from her...the wreck that killed her husband and only child.

* * *

Some of the events in this story are loosely based on real life events, so please be aware that the events concerning the deaths and Edward's non-punishment (not that I'm declaring the wreck 'his fault,' mind you) are very real and **_not_ something that _can't_ actually happen.**

Lurve you all. Thank you so much for reading.

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	19. Chapter 19

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**EPOV**

I offer the pamphlets, Bible, and loose papers to her as I kneel, the items shaking in my trembling hands. The dream rushes back to me at that moment: the shattering glass, the sound of children screaming, the blackness that follows.

Beads of sweat form on my forehead. Office Black watches me with concern, well aware of the panic attacks that can strike me at any given moment.

But why now?

This is God punishing me … punishing me even more for the unintentional hurt I've caused this woman. I'm now gasping for breath as I crouch at her feet, my arms trembling, my skin cold and damp.

I press my eyes shut and hear the scuffle of feet, the sound of hard soles against the even harder ground. My breathing slows as I imagine she's gone. She's gone and she's taking my anxiety with her.

Now I feel a smooth, warm hand delicately touch my arm. She's not gone. No, she's not gone. She's right by my side, comforting me. Comforting a killer.

Through flared nostrils I breath in her scent, the smell of honey and sugar filling my lungs. My eyes open to their own accord as I meet her timid stare, and a sweet, sweet voice, speaking to me.

"Everything will be okay."

My chest is caught in a live wire, wrapping and twisting around my sternum. Why is this woman comforting me? She obviously knows who I am. That's the only explanation for her reaction once she saw me. My name couldn't be kept out of the papers, but my face never made its way there. I was in the hospital for months after the wreck … that and the fact that the police report eventually deemed the wreck an 'accident,' recanting their inital claim that I was speeding.

Speeding.

I remember flying down the wet road that morning, but I honestly have no recollection of the speed I was travelling. I was too anxious to make it to work on time, too worried I'd lose my job to concern myself with the rain-spattered roads. Fingers were pointed my way, but they were also pointed in Eric Yorkie's way as well.

Eric Yorkie, husband of Isabella, and father of Ben, the child whose life I also took that fateful day.

"Maybe you should get the nurse," I hear her sweet voice murmur.

"No, I'm fine," I gasp out. "I'm sorry. I'm so _fucking sorry_."

The light touch of her hand stiffens, as though she knows exactly what I'm sorry for, and it's not for the anxiety take that's taken over my body.

"Ms. Swan, there's no touching the inmates. That was one of the rules you agreed to on the paperwork you signed."

Ms. Swan? When did she change her name? And why?

"But he's … hurt."

The sympathy she shows for me is astounding. I can't take the mixture of emotions flowing from her tiny little hand, through my arm, and swirling in my blood. I try to stand, and do so, dropping my gaze from her petite frame as I stagger back to my chair.

I continue to feel her stare as I drop my head, once slouched in my chair. I'm ashamed of my own weakness. The air flows more freely now. I'm no longer gasping for life, for the breath that previously refused to comply. The rush of my racing heart subsides, and I glance up to meet her concerned stare.

"If this is going to be a problem," Officer Black begins, his eyes dancing between mine, Isabella's, and a contemplative Seth's, "we can always assign you to a different inmate."

"No, I want Edward."

The conflicting emotions waging inside me increases with her words. My body has formed a riot, my heart and soul are the evil minions to the guilt that constantly consumes me. Shock joins in as well as Officer Black nods and disappears into the hallway, leaving the three of us alone.

Isabella stands near the door for a moment, her eyes never leaving mine. There's a strange shift in the air, that's no longer awkward or weak, but something else. Something I can put my finger on. She cautiously approaches me, dropping down on a gray chair of her own, sitting across the table from me as she opens her Bible and workbook.

"The first lesson," she whispers, the words caught in her throat.

"The first lesson," I murmur in encouragement, meeting her meek gaze.

"The first lesson," she continues, her slender face burning with a bashful blush, "is about forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?"

She nods, smiling a weak smile. It's weak, but beautiful, and I feel alive for the first time in so very long.

"Forgiveness."

* * *

Word of the day- minion

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	20. Chapter 20

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**EPOV**

I force myself not to look at her as she reads from the Bible. I force myself not to get lost in the light trill of her voice, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she speaks, the sweet smell of her skin as she edges her chair closer to the table, or the thick waves of honey and chocolate pouring over her shoulders.

I'm not_ only_ a monster for taking her family, I'm a monster for the things running through my mind. It's been weeks since I've been in the presence of a woman, other than the occasional female Officer with their hair tightly pulled away from their dead faces.

But no amount of time away from females should encourage the thoughts running through my head.

"Edward," her delicately spoken voice says, dragging me from my thoughts. "Did you hear what I asked?"

"No," I whisper, my eyes trained on my hands. "I'm sorry. Can you repeat that?"

"I asked to come up with a few questions you have about forgiveness? I'll call out the book, chapter, and verse, and you can read it aloud? Do you have your books of the Bible memorized? If not, you can find them listed in the front."

"I have them memorized," I tell her quietly.

I feel her surprise, all the way across the table, as she slides a worn Bible in my direction. Her fingers linger on the leather, mine brushing against them as I feebly attempt to take the book from her.

Our eyes meet at that moment, at that innocent touch. She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, her fingers never moving away. Mine refuse to move as well, frozen by something, by this girl, rendered immobile by this beautiful woman. The two of us remain still, until Seth clears his throat and shoots me a knowing glance.

We breakaway, effectively shattering whatever strange spell we are also under. Pinkness creeps up her graceful neck, swooping over the apples of her cheeks.

I run a hand nervously through my mussed rust-colored hair, wishing like hell I'd taken the time this morning to look more presentable. Why? Hell if I know, but one thing that I do know … she no longer wears her diamond wedding ring.

"Question?"

"Oh, uh. Yeah. What if … what if I don't want to forgive?"

Isabella stares at me for a long moment, a strange sense of recognition on her face. My eyes dart between her and the Bible cover, her name, her name that is no longer 'Yorkie' etched in gold on the faded leather.

Isabella _Swan_

"Edward, who do you not want to forgive? And why?"

I've never felt so vulnerable in my entire life as I have since sharing a room with this woman, breathing the same air. I'm willing myself not to break into a cold sweat, or worse; panic attack.

"Myself."

The room is silent. It's as dead as a tomb. Her ivory complexion pales even more as she leans back in her chair; dumbfounded. My elbows are planted on my knees, my legs jiggling back and forth, the Bible in my hands. Finally she speaks.

"Edward, why are you in here?"

The question she asks is not one I expect to hear. She's finally got my attention, my full attention, as I answer her question.

"Public drunk," I shrug, dropping my head in shame. "Disorderly conduct. Resisting arrest."

"And this is one of many offenses you've had?"

"No, this is the first time I've been arrested and incarcerated."

"Then… why don't you bail out? Call a bail bondsman?"

"What does this have to do with forgiveness?" I ask, a slight irritation flowing through my veins.

"Nothing," she whispers, sounding hesitant with her words. "I just don't understand why you haven't called someone to bail you out."

"Because this is where I belong," I groan, dropping the Bible on the table and scrubbing my face with one hand.

I know I can bail myself out. Hell, the bail's not but a few hundred bucks, but I don't want to leave. I want to stay here and endure the punishment I should have received so long ago. Why can't she see this? Why can't she see that I deserve to rot away for eternity?

"Edward," she whispers. "You're not a monster."

I glance up to catch her wetting her lips, and fuck me if the action doesn't do something to me.

"Really? Because in the short amount of time we've sit here, all I've done is watched you, studied you, breathed you in," I confess in a hushed tone, soaking in her widened, dark eyes. "All I've thought about is touching you. That doesn't make me a monster?"

* * *

Emotion of the day- want

Taking creative license on the jail stuff, so please hang in there with me. I'm not a jail expert. I've only been a couple of times. Kidding! I'm...kidding...

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	21. Chapter 21

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**EPOV**

My breathed confession sits in the air, the intensity of the words trapped, trapped in the room with me, with her, and with an officer I've long forgotten.

The blunt confession nudges her back, the words draining her into a stunned silences as she sharply inhales, then falls back against her chair.

My solemn face conveys the truth of my words, but after the initial shock, she quickly regains her composure: shoulders squared, her body perched upright, deep, dark eyes narrowed on mine. Then she leans forward.

"You're trying to scare me away," she accuses in a warm whisper. "But it won't work."

The quietly spoken words falling from her lips are bathed in Tennessee whiskey. Remorse floods me as I stare at this woman, at this beautiful woman with sadness etched around her eyes. I imagine her drinking her sorrows away while at home, then volunteering her time at the county jail, helping others find comfort within themselves. I wonder if she desires comfort as well, if she's moved on since her husband and son passed away, like so many others moved on, including my ex-wife.

"This isn't good for you," I tell her, watching her dark eyes cloud over. "Being in this room with me, conversing with me. This isn't good for you."

"What if it is?" she asks, nervously running her fingers through her long hair. "What if this is what I need? What you need?"

"You don't blame me," I whisper.

It's a statement, not a question. Realization so obviously washes over her as the corners of her lips turn into a slight frown.

"At first. I blamed you at first," she confesses, her cheeks reddening a bit before she continues. "When the police initially claimed you were speeding, I blamed you, but then things changed. The investigation intensified. All the other factors, Edward ... with all the other factors involved, I couldn't blame you then. I can't blame you now."

I shift uncomfortably in my chair. Seth's lingering stare burns my back. The air is thick and hard to breath, the weight of our words entirely suffocating us in this gray room where we sit.

"Blaming you for their death," she continues, her distant eyes welling with tears, "is like blaming you for the rain falling that day, or for the shrubbery that was overgrown and blocked Eric's view of the road, or for the fact that he pulled into oncoming traffic … in front of you."

"How do you know who I am?" I question, leaning toward her as well, our fingers merely inches from one another. "When you walked into this room you dropped your things. You knew who I was_ immediately_. How did you know it was me? I didn't grow up around here. My picture wasn't in the paper …."

"I visited you in the hospital."

My eyes widen with her words, as do hers. Her confession is just as startling to me, and to herself, as my earlier confession was to us both.

"You had a broken leg," she says in a sorrowful tone, "a broken arm, and broken ribs. There were cuts and gashes. You had a concussion. I thought you would die."

"I don't rememb …"

"And I wanted you to," she interrupts in a faraway tone, her eyes clouding over with her words. "I wanted you to die, just like they did. I wanted you dead. I wanted to finish you myself."

Those tears, those tears that are welling in her eyes … they spill over, breaking this invisible line between us which previously pulled us together. She leans back in her chair, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand, before gazing at me sheepishly, awaiting my response.

And what can I say? What can I tell her besides the truth.

"I wish you had."

* * *

Okay, so I know a lot of people are boycotting ff by not updating today (ff is purging the fandom of fics that are breaking the ToS), but that seems sort of silly to me, so here's your update. Also, my one-shot 'The Dirty Thirty' is included with many other fics in a forum to be reported/removed from ff, so I broke down and edited the one-shot to meet ff's terms of service. If you want the original, smutty version, you can find it on FictionPad, where I've transferred all my fics.

Okay, so a few of you are confused by Edward's being in jail/involvement of deaths, so I'm gonna break it down for ya.

In previous chapters I hinted that Edward was involved in the wreck that Bella's husband and child died in. A couple of chapters back Edward revealed that the wreck was an accident. In the last chapter Edward revealed that he's in jail for public drunk, disorderly conduct, and resisting arrest. **He is not in jail for the wreck.**

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	22. Chapter 22

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**BPOV**

_"I wish you had."_

Those four words haunted me for the same amount of days; four. It's been four days since I last saw Edward Cullen at the county jail, and two years before that.

He never even knew I visited him during his stay in the hospital.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. The woman who greeted me just outside the door of his hospital room refused me entrance the first time I showed up at the hospital, then continued to refuse each and every time after that. I'll never forget her angry blue eyes and tightly drawn mouth, the way she crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her nose slightly in the air. Edward's ex-wife looked nothing like my mother, but practically seeped _Renee_ from every single pore, from her haughty disposition to her painful, stinging words.

We all blamed someone after the wreck, the accident which took so much from so many people, and Kate Cullen obviously blamed _me_.

"Do you know that my husband was a star athlete in high school?" she asked, angrily swiping a tear from the corner of one eye. "And now the doctors are saying that he's lucky, that the worst case scenario is that he'll walk with a _limp_ for the rest of his life. A limp. My husband, who's not even thirty yet, will have to walk with a limp for the rest of his life."

"At least he's alive," I told her, red-hot fury boiling in my veins. "That's more than I can say for my husband and child."

"If you came here to place blame," Kate whispered, her face turning cruel. "You've come to the wrong place. Edward did nothing wrong. It was _your_ husband who pulled into oncoming traffic. I read the papers. It was the first time your husband had ever dropped your child off at that daycare. Why is that, Bella? Where were _you_? Where was Ben's mother when he _needed you_?"

I slapped the woman before I even realized what I'd done. The tall blonde's head snapped back, an angry hand print quickly appearing on her slightly tanned cheek. She pressed her fingers delicately against the mark of scorn, staring at me with wide, shocked eyes, and parted red lips. It was the first time I struck another person in my life.

It felt good.

"Your husband was speeding," I seethed, my face growing as red as the mark on her cheek. "He murdered my family … he killed my child, my husband."

"The police made a mistake, and admitted it. The newspapers recanted their claims. The police ended the investigation and admitted that Edward was not speeding," she spat back, her fingers leaving her cheek as she took a step forward. "Now, leave this floor … no, leave this fucking hospital before I call the cops and charge you with goddamn harassment."

Our growing voices had drawn a small crowd of nurses and nursing assistants. Persistent hands grasped at my upper arms as I fought against them, fought for what? I'm still not sure, not even to this day. Maybe I was fighting to get my hands on Kate one last time, for spewing those words, and for her placing the blame that I already so deeply felt. Maybe I was fighting to get into that room, to lay eyes on the man who took the only thing I ever had to live for.

Whatever I was fighting for, it ended. In a matter of minutes I was escorted from the hospital by a sympathetic man of around six-two with kind chocolate eyes and an honest smile.

"Mrs. Cullen leaves around nine pm," the guard said, lighting his cigarette as we stood near my car, his eyes darting around as though he was being careful not to get caught smoking on hospital grounds. "It's pretty quiet on the night shift. The head nurse usually heads down to the cafeteria on the first floor around one am and returns at one-thirty. While she's gone the nursing assistants sneak in the conference room and goof around on their phones."

"Why are you telling me this? Do you want me to murder this man? Because that's what I plan on doing."

"You ain't gonna murder nobody, Ms. Bella," the man said, surprising me by calling me by the name I prefer, the name I hadn't introduced myself as in ages. "That's right. I know you. You're Charlie Swan's little girl. Charlie Swan's a good man, and I reckon he raised some pretty level-headed kids."

I nodded, thinking of my father, how he would react if he saw the way I acted that day. My cheeks burned red with shame and humiliation. I found myself hanging my head.

"We all need closure, Ms. Bella," the guard continued, his voice far away and thoughtful. "I sure hope you find yours."

The bright cherry on the end of his cigarette disappeared beneath his heavy boot. He gave me a smile and a nod, then turned and walked away, weaving through the rows of cars lining the hospital parking lot.

It was those guard's words that I repeated over and over in the back of my mind that day. It was those very words that pushed me to sneak into the hospital that exact same night, to quietly slip past the inattentive staff in the corridors, and to ease silently into his room.

The smell of blooming flowers caught my breath as I entered the room. The fragrant smell of blossoms was one that normally brought forth happiness, but now only reminded me of death, of flower arrangements on caskets and sprays of carnations draping across headstones.

_This man must be very loved_, I thought to myself, my eyes taking in the blooms pouring from vases, the bundles of balloons tied to every surface.

I stood over him, the man who murdered my family, and gazed down at his face, at the scrapes and cuts, the bandage wrapped tightly around his head. Pain was etched in his features. Long, dark lashes rested against wounded cheeks. Bronze hair, too long and unruly for a man his age, peeking out from beneath the bandage wrapped around his forehead.

One arm was set in a cast, the other clutching a note with elegant scrawl gracefully drawn between the pale blue lines. Without a second thought, I pulled the note from his hand, carefully watching his face, sighing in relief when there was no movement, not even a blink of an eye.

_Edward,_

_There is no greater sorrow for a mother than witnessing her child hurt, and not only physically hurt, but hurt in any sense of the word. I know you blame yourself for the accident, but it was not your fault. Please, Edward, pull yourself from whatever dark place your thoughts have travelled. Your wife needs you. I need you. Do you remember what you told me when I was diagnosed with cancer? Do you remember how I would spend my days laying in bed sobbing? You asked me why I so easily accepted defeat when there was so much left in life worth fighting for. You asked me to fight for myself, and for you, just like I'm asking you to fight for yourself, and for me now. I need my precious baby boy back. Come back to us, Edward._

_Your loving mother,_

_Esme_

* * *

A much longer chapter, because I'm asking forgiveness for not updating in four days. I'm sorry!

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	23. Chapter 23

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**BPOV**

Pouring myself a half of a cup of coffee, I take a careful sip, remembering reading Edward's letter from his mother. The pain of her words as she begged her baby boy to fight the demons he so obviously fell victim to, enraged me at the time. Esme's son still had a chance at life. Edward was weak, broken, injured, yet still living and breathing, something my son was not.

I stayed in Edward's room for the entire thirty minutes the guard had advised. Sitting on the stiff fabric of a salmon-colored recliner, I watched him sleep. I studied the rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes flitted behind closed lids as he dreamed. I witnessed the facial grimaces, flinches, the whimpers, the tears as a nightmare invaded his mind.

My own tears fell as well. They were tears of anger and hurt, jealousy and wrath. How could that man sleep, even with nightmares? It was something I hadn't done in so very long; sleep. Sleep evaded me, although I was beyond exhausted. The fact that my nights were spent in the solitude of the dark bedroom once belonging to my husband and I didn't help. The sheets still smelled of him. His cologne still lingered in the air.

Eventually I would grow weary, slipping into an hour's worth of slumber, only to have my mind relentlessly thrown into a tailspin, sending my peaceful dreams ricocheting into nightmares. I awoke cold and trembling, coated in a thin sheen of sweat, my night-clothes plastered to my sticky skin.

"Take a shot of tequila every night," my brother, Jasper, drawled one day upon visiting me. He shot me a lopsided grin, then turned back to his cell, scrolling through as I sat a cup of coffee on the dining room table in front of him. "Tequila always makes me tired."

"Tequila makes you mean," I corrected, my voice thick with sleepiness.

"Only after about six shots."

I frowned at the smirk on my brother's handsome face, but contemplated his suggestion to my quandary. What could it hurt, taking a shot or two at night? Nothing, if it meant finally getting my long-eluded sleep.

So I did it. I took a shot that night … then, to be on the safe side, I took another, mesmerized by the dulling sensation the alcohol had on my mind. Each night I would drift into a peaceful slumber using alcohol, any type of alcohol, as a sleep aid until one day I no longer drank to rest.

I drank it to cope.

Shaking my head, I draw myself from my memories, the memories of the hospital, of drinking, of Edward.

_Edward._

I can't stop thinking about him, about the pain in his eyes every time he gazes at me, at the words he spoke. His blatant confession …

All I've thought about is touching you.

I'm disgusted with myself, with the effect those words had on me that day, the effect they continue to have on me now. This man, who I once blamed for the death of my husband and child, shouldn't bring forth the flood of conflicting, confusing emotions churning through my mind. But he does. Because, in that short amount of time I shared the same space as Edward Cullen, I felt it too … the draw, the constant need to touch him, comfort him, heal him.

I'm sickened with myself. So sick that I find myself gagging and dry heaving over my cup of coffee, gasping for breath with tears streaming down my cheeks.

_He was trying to run you off, Bella_, I tell myself, once I regain my breath. _And it's working. You're supposed to be at the county jail, in ten minutes, yet here you sit crying over stale coffee._

I dump my wasted coffee in the kitchen sink, then lean against the counter weighing my options. The newly purchased bottle of Jack Daniels sits nearby, the dark liquid practically calling my name. My mouth floods with the thirst, the thirst for what I constantly crave. I eye the bottle warily, chewing the inside of my mouth, my fingers tapping against the counter. I can do one of two things today: I can hide out in my home and drink until I can't think straight, or I can spend the day ministering to Edward Cullen. I shove myself from the counter and wrap my hand around the glass bottle, carefully examining the liquid as it sloshes around inside.

"Jack Daniel's, if you please," my cracked voice whispers, "knock me to my knees. you're the only friend, who has ever been, that didn't do me wrong."

I twist the top, tossing it carelessly in the sink, then press the bottle to my lips.

"Jack Daniel's if you please, knock me to my knees. You can kill this pain, that's driving me insane ... since my baby's gone."

* * *

Song Prompt - Jack Daniel's, If You Please. I prefer the Miranda Lambert version, but it is hard to find.

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	24. Chapter 24

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**BPOV**

The unmistakable sound of a key rattling inside the front door lock causes me to freeze. The bottle pressed from my lips is drawn away by my unsteady hand.

Only one person, other than myself, has a key to my house. It's a key that my husband gave her years earlier _in case of emergencies_, he'd said, but I knew the truth. My mother schemed it from him in the only way she knew how, by voicing her so called 'good intentions.'

Truth is …. she's just fucking nosey.

"My God," she murmurs, the click, click, click of her heels against the cold floor grating on my nerves. "Is this how you spend your days?"

Rolling my eyes, I raise the bottle back to my lips and take a swig, just a little swig. It's certainly not enough to get me drunk … just enough to take the edge off.

"You never worry about Jasper's drinking."

My cheeks burn with my statement. I'm not normally one to speak this way to my mother, but the past few days of turmoil and confusion churning through my brain has turned my reasoning to mush.

My mother stares at me in disbelief before a slow, curling smile plays on her perfectly painted lips. Those lips pull back as she shows her teeth, nice and straight, aligned years ago through thousands of dollars worth of dental work.

Back then she was Renee Higginbotham, a poor girl with a rich girl's surname. My maternal grandparents fell into hard times, financially, then pushed Renee into marrying a man whose family was ten times wealthier than the Higginbotham family ever imagined being. She married my father. She married Charles 'Charlie' Swan.

"Well," my mother says, crossing her arms over her surgically enhanced chest. "Someone not only took a shot of Jack today, they took a shot of confidence as well."

"You never complain about Jasper's drinking problem."

"Jasper has a job," she shrugs, relaxing her arms and lazily sauntering around the room. "He has a wife and kids. Jasper most certainly does not spend his time wallowing around in self-pity."

Renee walks around inspecting my kitchen. Her little upturned nose wrinkles in distaste as she gazes at my country-looking canisters, the ones I found at a yard sale years ago. They're adorned with little red hens pecking the ground in front of an old barnyard. The curtains above the kitchen sink are critiqued next. Her eyes tell me that she finds them distasteful as well … too cheap, too tacky, especially inside such an expensive house, one that my husband worked hard to build.

I've heard it a million times. Sometimes I hear the words uttered from her mouth. Other times I read her thoughts on her face. My mother is nothing but an open book to me.

"I get it," I muse aloud, picking up the discarded bottle top and screwing it back on the bottle. "It's not okay to be an alcoholic, unless you're a _functioning_ alcoholic. Well, Mother, I think I fit the bill just fine, right along with Jasper."

"You're not an alcoholic, Isabella," she huffs, appraising me with those dead eyes.

"I'm turning into one," I tell her quietly.

I think of the letter from so long ago, the letter from Edward's mother to him. The words begged for her son to come back to her. I remember the emotions that ran deep inside me, even jealousy. I was _jealous_ of that relationship, and I wondered then what I continue to wonder now…

"I need help," I tell her, watching her face soften for a moment before hardening once more.

"Help yourself," she mutters, the click, click, click of her heels echoing through the kitchen to the foyer as I follow her. "Put the bottle down. How fucking hard is that? People do it all the time."

"I think I need professional help, not just for the drinking. For other things, my thoughts …"

"I see you've come to your senses about the ministry program," she says, abruptly changing the subject. She pauses near the front door in the foyer, turns, and gazes at me with a critical stare. "Considering you're supposed to be there by now. Is that what's brought all this on? The ministry program?"

I shrug, unsure of the answer myself.

"Find something worthwhile to do with your time," she suggests, her eyes growing cold, yet thoughtful, "besides wallowing around in your feelings all day. I understand that you no longer wish to teach ... to be around children, but the insurance money will be gone one day. Go out and find someone, Isabella. Someone who can take care of you, financially and otherwise. Someone like Eric."

"I can't believe you have the audacity to suggest …"

"Don't play games with me, Isabella," she whispers, those cold eyes crinkling at the edges as she smiles a bitter smile. "We both know you never loved that man."

My knees weaken. Her words cause me to waver, to lose my balance. I grip the nearby door frame, struggling to stand.

"I loved Eric."

"You married Eric for the money," she spits, her words slicing through me, cutting me raw and deep.

"Just at first. _Just at first_. And only because you pushed me to marry a man I barely knew! You pushed, and pushed, and pushed so goddamn much! But I _grew to love him_. I loved him so very much. I still do."

My face feels wet. Reaching up I brush my fingers against my cheeks, then draw them away. I stare at the wetness … stare at the wetness. I'm sobbing.

"See what happens when you love someone, my dear?" my mother whispers, shaking her head. She gazes at me in disappointment, as though I'm unworthy to be in her very presence, even in my own home. "I've told you your entire life, Isabella. Don't fall in love. Love is for fools. You only get hurt in the end. Don't be such a fucking fool. You'll be better off following my advice. Never fall in love."

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	25. Chapter 25

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

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**BPOV**

I'm not sure what to expect when, a week later, I enter the little gray room where Edward and I once met. I spent the entire drive to the jail wondering if he requested that Angela, the preacher's daughter, take over my lessons with him. Maybe he thought I gave up on him.

It's that thought, and the thought of going against my mother by continuing to minister, that drove me to this place, this building full of gray concrete and steel.

Edward's unruly, rust-colored hair is in a state of disarray, the strands flopping carelessly across his forehead. He sweeps his fingers through the strands, shoving them from his face. A Bible sits in front of him, his thumb aimlessly flipping through the fragile pages.

I watch him for a moment, memorizing the firm line of his clenched jaw, the darkness in his green eyes, until a throat is cleared by the guard tucked away in a chair near the corner of the room.

Edward's eyes flit up to mine. The firmness in his clenched jaw hardens even more. He leans back in the chair, abandoning his Bible. Arms cross over a cut chest, the flow and curve of tattoo's peeping out from beneath the sleeves of his orange uniform. I'm a bug on display under his harsh eyes as I cross the room, unceremoniously dumping my workbooks and teaching materials on the table.

"We'll pick up where we left off last week," I tell him, after clearing my throat and perching carefully on the chair.

I try to look indifferent, but find myself glancing up at him shyly, searching for his reaction to my presence. There is none, other than the hardness that remains etched on his handsome face. My stomach feels funny; queasy. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, the cold metal beneath me undoubtedly will do a number on my back before I leave this facility.

"Do you still wish you were dead, Edward?"

The tightness of his face increases slightly. Those heavy eyebrows of his raise a bit at the bluntness of my question.

"You don't beat around the bush, do you, Bella?"

I love the way he says my name, the way the word rolls off his tongue. _Bella_. I find myself staring at him, watching him as he watches me.

"I'm usually pretty guarded … around everyone," I eventually say, shifting in my seat once more. "But you've been open with your thoughts, so I'll be open with mine. Answer the question. Do you still wish you were dead?"

"Sometimes," he admits as he continues to quietly appraising me. "I really have nothing left to live for."

"What about your wife?"

The wedding band he wore in the hospital no longer remains wrapped around his long finger. I wonder if rings and other types of jewelry was something taken away by the inmates once they were placed in jail, but there are no tan lines on his slightly sun-kissed skin, leading me to believe his wedding band has been absent for a very long time.

I'm fishing for answers, but the reason I do this is beyond me. I'm assuming it's this connection I feel to this man, not only this strange connection I felt the last time I was in this room with him, but the connection of our past, the connection of the hurt and horrors of our mutual broken lives.

"My wife, Kate, left me a year after the accident," he admits, picking up the Bible and absently thumbing through once more. "She couldn't take my self-deprecation. Her words, not mine. She was ready to 'move forward,' she said. I was stuck in the past, according to her."

"Are you angry with her?"

"No," he murmurs, his thumb pausing from the flipping of pages as he fully opens his Bible. "I'm not angry. Hurt? Yeah. It hurt. It still hurts. I took my vows very seriously. Through sickness and in health, till death do us part."

Edward's body grows rigid as the words leave his lips. He gazes at me with wide-eyes, possibly expecting those words to stab me in the heart, to remind me of my deceased husband. I give him a gentle, encouraging smile. One of the things I despise more than anything is those who tiptoe around me because of the deaths of my loved ones. I cringe at the regret in others' eyes once they've so innocently voiced a statement, only to look at me with pity afterwards as they realize they unconsciously wounded me with their verbiage.

I may be cracked, and even a little broken, but I'm not made of glass. I haven't completely crumbled, not just yet.

"Maybe we can work on forgiving not only yourself, but Kate as well," I suggest, picking up a workbook. "Did you study the lesson plans from last week?"

Edward nods, then slides the workbook across the table. Our fingers brush against one another as I reach out for the book. The apples of my cheeks burn as my heart picks up pace. Our fingers breakaway as I pull the workbook in my direction, never looking up.

I thumb through the book, accidentally passing lesson one and somehow opening the book to lesson three. My eyebrows raise in question as my eyes skim the paper. Blank after blank is filled in with perfectly elegant scrawl.

"I finished the workbook," he says with a shrug, staring down at his interlocked fingers resting on the table. "There's not much else to do around here."

"We'll go through the verses and compare your answers," I say, quirking my brow as I search for my Bible, then slapping my forehead as I remember last seeing it on the coffee table back home.

"Are you alright?"

"I left my Bible back home. I'm sure there's another one around here somewhere."

"Probably," he murmurs, his deep eyes green eyes boring steadily into mine as he gives me a small smile. "Or you can scoot next to me and we can share."

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	26. Chapter 26

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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**EPOV**

Bella doesn't smell like whiskey today.

It's the first thing I notice, other than the pink tinge to her cheeks as I suggest she move closer to me so we can share my Bible. After one cautionary glance at Seth, the guard who's currently absorbed in a crossword puzzle book, she pulls the chair around the table and slowly sinks down on the cool metal. The fragrance of strawberries and cream swirl around me, and I find myself craving the smell, wanting nothing more to bury my nose in her hair and breathe her in.

I grip the sides of the chair until I'm sure my knuckles are white, struggling to smother my irrational thoughts of her. This sick need I feel to be near her is driving me insane, worsening over the past week that she's been gone.

"You were gone."

The words come out unintentionally, slipping from my tongue and hanging in the dead space between us. From the corner of my eye, I see her body grow stiff for a moment. Then she turns to me.

"I was gone, and I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be sorry," I mutter, slightly embarrassed that I let her absence affect me this way.

"Yes, there is," she told me in her quiet little way, hesitantly reaching out to touch my strained hand. "I made a commitment to be here and I failed you, and myself, on that commitment. It won't happen again."

I hear her words, but they're just a blurring slur of consonants and vowels. The only thing I can focus on is the feather-light touch of her fingertips against the back of my hand as she rubs small circles on my flesh. A thrill shoots through me, the sort of thrill I haven't felt in a long damn time, and I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from moaning at the touch.

I'm a sick fuck.

"I'll always be here."

I barely hear the words, and maybe I don't hear them at all. Maybe it's just my sickening desire to hear her utter those words that plays in the back of my mind. If only she knew why I feel this way about her ... would it make any difference? Would she embrace it, or would she find me as repulsive as I find myself?

"Why weren't you here?"

My question causes her to drop her fingers from my hand. The feeling is immediately missed, the break in our connection almost palpable, at least to me.

"If I tell you the truth, you will undoubtedly blame yourself."

"Why do you say that?" I ask, releasing my hold on the chair, and staring down at my reddened hands folded in my lap.

"Because that's what you do, Edward," she murmurs. "You blame yourself for things out of your control."

"Maybe we're not so different, huh?"

I glance up and meet her dark eyes as she mulls over my words. She's beautiful, she's so damn beautiful, with her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, and those long, black lashes lining her eyes.

"All I've thought about is touching you."

Bella whispers these words, repeating what I told her just a few days ago. I'm instantly ashamed of myself. I now understand why she's distanced herself. She accused me of trying to scare her away with my words, and I was, but that didn't make them any less honest.

"That's what I said," I mumble, sounding like an idiot.

"No," she murmurs, glancing briefly at the officer sitting in the corner, absorbed in his puzzle book, before her eyes dart back to mine. "That's what I'm saying _to you_. All I've thought about is touching you."

* * *

I owe y'all a few updates. I've been a slacker. Want some more?

Reviews = lurve


	27. Chapter 27

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

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**EPOV**

I lean back in my gray, metal chair, stunned by her words. There's a distinctive cough behind me, an attempt to muffle a snicker or two as Seth listens in. Bella's pink cheeks burn into a brilliant red as she chews nervously on the corner of her lip.

I'm mesmerized by the action, the way she tucks her plump lip between her teeth, bringing forth a heated wave of desire churning through my body. My chair makes an irritating scraping sound against the concrete as I pull it closer to the table, a feeble attempt to hide the evidence of what her words are doing to me.

"I'm losing my mind," I mutter.

I'm convinced I'm hearing things, because I have to be, right? I have to be imagining these words coming out of her mouth. There's no way this woman, who once told me that she blamed me for her family's death, thinks about me the same way I think about her. It must be a lie, a delusion, there's no way ...

"Maybe I'm losing my mind as well," she quietly confesses, her fingers absently flipping through my Bible. "But I feel something when you're near me. I ... can't explain it. I feel conflicted inside, because I know I shouldn't be ... _attracted_ to you. I don't know you. Not really. At one time the only thing that came to my mind when your name was mentioned was hurt and pain, and I can't lie and say that it doesn't still do that. But there's other things, new things, that I feel when I think of you now. You want me to hate you, but I can't. I can't because I know you're not a bad person, Edward. You could blame my husband for the accident. Technically, it was his fault. He pulled into oncoming traffic. I'm sure he didn't see you coming."

"No, I never blamed him," I sigh, releasing a heavy breath. "When the cops told me I was speeding, I believed them. I remember picking up speed because I was running late for work. I remember the rain, and I remember the sounds of shattering glass and crunching metal ... but that's it. I don't remember anything else."

"You've never blamed him, not like your wife did," she mumbles, causing my head to snap up as I stare into her sad eyes.

"How do you know she blamed him?"

"She told me," she confesses with a shrug, "when I went to see you in the hospital. She wouldn't let me inside your room, although I can't blame her. I probably would have killed you back then. Kate stopped me at the door on many occasions, and told me it was Eric's fault, that it was my fault, that you would walk with a limp for the rest of your life."

"I do," I tell her, running my fingers through my hair as my ex-wife's face flashes through my mind. "I walk with a limp, but it's not even noticeable to most people. Unless you know what happened, you'd never even realize it. Fuck, I'm sorry, Bella. I'm sorry she said those things to you."

"It doesn't matter," she mutters, abandoning her Bible as she gazes back to me. "She only voiced what I questioned of myself a million times. If only I'd been the one to drive Ben to daycare that day, maybe they'd both be alive."

"You can't beat yourself up with the 'what if's.' I should know. I do it every single second of every single day."

"Maybe we should both take your advice," she says with a sad smile. "And let go of our blame. Are you ready for our Bible lesson, Mr. Cullen?"

"No."

"No?" She looks surprised and, if possible, even sadder.

"No," I repeat, tentatively reaching out and grazing my thumb against the back of her hand, longing for that connection once more. "I'm not ready to read about Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John. I'd rather spend the rest of the hour getting to know _you_."

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Do you like jumping POV's, or would you rather me stay in one? I don't even have to ASK which one you prefer, because I'm sure I already know the answer to that question!

Reviews = lurve


	28. Chapter 28

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

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**EPOV**

"What would you like to know about me?" she questions, watching as my thumb traces gentle circles on the back of her hand.

I'm waiting for Seth to speak up, to reinforce the rule against visitors touching inmates, but he says nothing. He's seemingly content to sit quietly in his chair with his book.

"Everything," I confess. "I want to know everything about you."

My breath catches in my throat as her hand slowly slips away from mine. She busies herself by tucking a stray stand of hair behind her ear. My heart drops in disappointment, but then she places her hand back on the table, and glances up at me shyly. I'm quick to return my hand near hers, this time hooking my pinky around hers.

And she lets me.

"Where did you get that scar?" I ask, watching her confused eyes.

"What scar?"

"The one above your left eye."

Bella's free hand immediately touches her left eyebrow, then her hand falls back into her lap as she gazes at me for a long moment.

"How did you know I have a scar there? It's tiny. No one's ever noticed it before."

"I noticed it," I tell her, smirking as that bottom lip is drawn between her teeth once more. "It's small, but it's there."

I gingerly raise my hand to her face, my chest tightening as a small glimpse of fear plays in her eyes. She's silent and still, sucking in a deep breath when I brush my thumb over the place where she was once injured, the pad of my thumb skimming over the fine, downy hairs of her eyebrow.

My hand abandons her face, but I can't help but run my fingertips down the length of her delicate chin as I do so. I imagine I'll remember her darkening eyes tonight, the way her pupils dilate when I caress her skin. I imagine I'll think about it when I'm in my bunk, when it's dark and there's nothing to do but think, and touch myself, and remember her face.

"I fell off my bike," she whispers, licking her lips as my hand returns to hers. "I was five, maybe six. My father was helping me, teaching me how to ride without training wheels. I guess I was a late learner. My brother learned how to ride without training wheels when he was around four ... Anyway, I skidded on some loose gravel and fell in the driveway, cutting my face on a rock. My father was so upset. It's the first time I remember ever seeing him look so worried."

"So you have a brother and a father in your life," I murmur. "What about your mother?"

There's a sudden change in Bella's entire presence. She immediately grows tense, her hand leaving mine once more, but this time it doesn't return. Instead, she rests it in her lap, fumbling with the cuticles of her nails as her eyes refuse to meet mine.

"What happens after this?" she quietly asks, still not meeting my concerned gaze, and rebuking my question. "When you leave this place? Are we ... I mean, do you ... want to _see me_ when you get out of jail?"

"I'd like that, very much," I confess.

The tightness in my chest returns once more, because what if she doesn't? What if she doesn't want the same thing? What if she only pities me, this man who blames himself for the death of her family?

"Is that something you'd like as well?" I ask, because I have to know.

"Yes," she answers, although entirely to hesitant for my liking. "But there's so many complications, Edward. I just don't see how this will work out between us."

"It'll be hard, but I'd like to think it's worth it, don't you?" I question.

"Yes," she hedges, fumbling with her fingers again. "But can we ... go slow? I haven't felt this way for someone in a very long time. I'm scared, to be honest. I'm scared that people will judge us. I'm scared that my family will dismiss me from their lives, but mostly I'm scared to not give it a try."

"So, let's give it a try," I suggest, shooting her what I hope is an understanding smile, ignoring the boulder sitting heavily in my chest. "Tell me about your mother."

"My mother?"

"Yeah, your mother."

She chews on my words for a moment, then finally meets my eyes.

"My mother hates you," she whispers, her face crumbling as the words slip out. "Maybe as much as she hates me."

* * *

Sorry for the chapter repeat. Not sure what happened there, but it might be my ADD. :P

Reviews = lurve


	29. Chapter 29

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

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**EPOV**

There's so much pain etched on her face. I want nothing more than to tuck her in my arms and take it away, but a cleared throat behind me erases the thought.

"Time's up, Ms. Swan," Seth announces as he stands to stretch.

Bella looks from Seth to me, nothing but regret and remorse on her face. For what? I'm not exactly sure. Probably from the admission she just made, although I'm not surprised. Of course her mother hates me. She probably blames me for the death of her grandson. I'd be shocked if she _didn't_ hate me ...

"I'll see you in a few days?" Bella asks, standing and slowly gathering her things.

"Yeah. A few days."

She nods and smiles, shifting slightly in place. There's a sudden awkwardness present, as the two of us are mutually unsure of how to say our goodbyes. I stand, towering over her small frame, a warmth spreading over me as I watch her eyes quickly roam my body.

"So, um. I'll see you later, Edward."

I nod and smile, watching her as she leaves. The workbooks are tucked under one arm, and her skirt sways with the movement of her hips. My eyes never leave her retreating form until she's swallowed up in the hallway, disappearing from my view.

"Someone's got it _bad_," Seth cracks, shooting me a grin and a wink. "Hard up during Bible study."

"Fuck off," I mutter, shaking my head when he childishly begins making kissing noises, an ever-present reminder of just how young the officer really is.

Seth walks me back to my cell where Mike is standing in front of the sink. The bars clink loudly behind me, sealing me in the tiny room with my non-repentive bunkmate. Mike never looks behind him as he carefully toys with his hair, spiking it this way and that, using the water from the sink to arrange the strands. I momentarily wonder who he's fixing himself up for, but quickly dismiss the thought as a shudder runs through me.

"How was the lovely Ms. Swan today?"

I meet Mike's gaze in the 'mirror,' which is really just a flat piece of dull, silver metal attached to the wall above the sink. I narrow my eyes at him, then ask him how he knows her name, especially since a woman named 'Angela' teaches his Bible lessons.

"You moan her name at night," he snickers. "Sometimes it's 'Bella' and sometimes it's 'Ms. Swan.' Either way, I wish you'd keep that shit down at night. You're putting a damper on _my_ dreams."

"That's probably a good thing, Lester," I grunt, sighing as I sit on the sagging mattress of the bottom bunk. "I'm sure your dreams are worth interrupting."

"Oh, my dreams are nice," he murmurs, his voice sounding far away, edged with an eerie tone. "I dream of sweet young things too."

"That's enough," I snap, glaring at the wounded look on his eyes.

"What's wrong, Cullen? They're just dreams. Just like yours ... except yours are dreams that will never come true."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Don't you know?" he laughs, tousling his hair one last time as he turns and props one hand on his hip. "The Swan family is the richest family in town. Do you really think Daddy will let his little girl fool around with the likes of_ you_?"

* * *

Hopefully I fixed the chapter 27/28 repeat. Thanks, Hollbeth, for pm'ing me, and all of you that left reviews alerting me. Thanks to whomever is pimping me on ADF. Y'all rock!

Reviews = dream lemons?


	30. Chapter 30

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

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**EPOV**

I think about Mike's words long into the night. I imagine Bella's family's reaction if we were to continue this ..._ thing_ between us outside of these dreary, gray walls. An emptiness resonates deep within me. I can't do this to her. I can't drive a wedge between her and her family, what family she _does_ have left in this world. If I did that, well, then I'd be more of a monster than I already am.

Still, I can't help but imagine what it would be like, spending time alone with her, away from guards and walls and sadness. I close my eyes and see her face flashing behind my closed lids.

_She's wearing a sexy little, red dress as she stands in front of a blurry image of a home, a home I've never seen. I pull up in front of her house in my truck and nervously fumble with the handle, anxious to go to her, to touch her, to smell her._

_She laughs as I dart up the sidewalk, grinning as I wrap my arms around her and pull her warm body close to mine. I bury my nose in her dark, silky hair, something I've longed for since she entered the jail where I was held. The scent of strawberries fills my lungs as I inhale, basking in her fragrance. I guide her to my truck, open the door for her, and make sure she's buckled safely inside before we drive off._

_We eat at my favorite Italian restaurant, laughing over wine and pasta. She giggles as I take her napkin and wipe sauce from the corner of her mouth, she snickers as she does the very same for me._

_And when we leave that restaurant ... I never take her back to her unidentifiable home._

_Instead, I pull up in my driveway, sucking in the air that's intermingled with tension and her sweet arousal. We both know why I've brought her here. We both know and we both want it. I can see it in her eyes, not only in my dreams now, but when she sat next to me earlier today. I saw the want, the raw passion, the primal desire, hidden behind fear and uncertainty._

_We make small talk inside my place as I show her around. Her little hands are wrapped around a trembling wine glass as she eventually asks to see my bedroom. I take the glass from her hand, then sit it on the table. Her fingers are cold against my own, but I warm them quickly as I press reassuring kisses over the soft flesh._

_I lead her to the bedroom, nervousness creeping into my bones. What if she changes her mind? What if it's too soon? My eyes dart around the room, hoping it's tidy enough, praying she doesn't bail ..._

_But when I turn and find her slipping the dress from her curvy, bare body, staring at me with dark eyes as the dress pools around her heels ... I know she wants me just as badly as I want her._

_Want her._

_Need her._

_Have to have her._

_Buried ... buried deep inside her._

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Reviews = more dream lemons?


	31. Chapter 31

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

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**EPOV**

_"I've dreamed of this," I confess, watching in awe as a pale blush creeps over her body._

_The air in the room is cool, causing her pink nipples to strain as she shifts in place. I attempt to give her a reassuring smile, but I'm sure my eyes are dark and hungry and she's scared ... she looks so scared, yet eager as I slowly close in on her._

_"You're so beautiful," I murmur._

_My hand cradles the back of her neck, her dark hair ensnared between my fingers as I bring her face to mine. My lips brush against hers, gentle at first, as I kiss her for the very first time._

_She moans against my mouth, parting her lips. I taste the warmth of her tongue as it meets my own, the kiss suddenly turning primal as she presses her mouth desperately against mine. Her fingers make work of my shirt, shakily loosening the buttons and pushing the material from my body. She pulls away from my lips, then gazes down at my chest, at my abs that are clenched from the pain of holding back._

_Holding back._

_I'm holding myself back from ravishing this woman, because that's all I want to do; ravish her. I want to throw her on the bed and fuck her, not make love to her. I want to fuck her, because I need it. I've needed to be inside her for so long and she's standing here, naked, touching me, her thumbs flicking across my nipples, causing me to suck in a sharp breath. When her warm mouth sucks one between her lips, I nearly come undone._

_"Fuck."_

_She moans as the word leaves my lips, the moan traveling from my nipple straight to my cock. She hungrily roams my body with her mouth, her tongue trailing down my chest and abs to the waistband of my slacks._

_Bella gazes up at me with those eyes. Those eyes are no longer scared or worried. They're as desperate and needy as my own as she tugs at the belt holding my tented pants. She whips the belt off, then tosses it aside. When she palms my erection I thrust against her curious hand, and fumble with the button on my pants._

_"Don't."_

_She stops me with one word and the licking of her lips. Pushing my hands away, she works the button loose, then slowly pulls down the zipper. Grasping the waistband of my slacks, she slowly tugs them down, along with my boxers._

_There's no hesitation. Not anymore. She eagerly takes me in her mouth, swirling her tongue around the head of my cock, before licking it down to the base and back again. My hips trust on instinct as I grasp her head between my hands. I never close my eyes as I watch her take me entirely in her mouth. My cock hits the back of her throat as she sucks with her mouth and pumps me with her hand, watching me as I stare down at her._

_I may never close my eyes again._

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Reviews = ... whatever. I'm going to take a cold shower.


	32. Chapter 32

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

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**EPOV**

"E, man," a distant voice murmurs.

The warm, brown eyes gazing up at me from where Bella's kneeling before me slowly fade away. Darkness takes it place. Darkness and the pallid blue of my bunk mate's eyes as I find him smirking down at me, his face glowing from the dim light.

"What the fuck, Lester?" I mutter.

Sitting up too fast, I smash my head against the top bunk, cringing at the dull pain that follows. Rubbing the top of my head, I glare at my 'roommate,' then glance around in confusion, struggling to get a grasp on the time and why he's kneeling beside my bed. A shudder runs through me as a handful of reasons for him being so close by runs through my mind, but no. No, he wouldn't fuck with me, literally or figuratively. I'm twice his size, and twenty-seven, not twelve, which is the age he prefers.

"You wouldn't shut up," he explains, grimacing as he remembers something. "You were moaning 'Oh, Bella' and shit. I can't sleep for all that moaning and grunting."

The dream is still fresh on my mind, and I feel a rush of disgust flood through me when Mike noticeably glances down to the evidence of said dream. I shove him away, ignoring his mutterings. Perched on the edge of my bed, I run my fingers through my hair, taking long, deep breaths until the churning of blood in my system settles down. I sit there long after Mike climbs to the top bunk, and even longer after his breathing evens out.

I sit and think. I think about what Mike told me before I drifted to sleep. I already knew Bella's family was rich. Living in a small town has its advantages and disadvantages, and knowing everyone in town could be a mixture of both. I haven't lived in Forks, Kentucky my entire life. I moved here from Chicago when I hit my twenties, following a girl I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with. She yearned for the peace and quiet of the countryside, a place where we could raise our children ... children we never had.

It was hard to NOT know who the Swan family was, especially after the wreck. Their names and faces were splashed all over the newspapers that my mother struggled to discretely hide while sitting near me in the hospital room. When the television bolted to the wall turned on, there were their faces, their sorrowful faces.

Charlie Swan, Bella's father, was once mayor of this small Kentucky town, and known as one of the top racehorse breeders in the country. His wife, Renee, is an astonishingly beautiful socialite, but besides that, I know nothing about the women, apart from the fact that she hates me.

She hates me.

"How is this ever going to work?"

I mumble to myself as I scrub my face with my slightly calloused hands. In the stillness and dimness of the cell, I begin to question my sanity, to question the power this woman holds over me, and how she could ever feel anything for me besides disgust.

Now I think about the letters, the stack of letters hidden in my desk at home, the same letters I wrote to this stranger of a woman for two years. They are letters with a mailing address I've never seen in person, letters embellished with outdated stamps that never went through the postal service.

Those letters are a connection to this woman, a series of written pleas for forgiveness that slowly turned into something more, something I can't explain and possibly never will. I began telling her things in those letters that I never told anyone else about myself. I found the rhythm and flow of my pen against paper as I shared details of my life with someone I never met so ... cathartic. But she never saw the letters, because in the end, I'm a coward. I'm a coward who once feared this woman. I feared she'd never forgive, so I accepted never knowing. I accepted never knowing what she felt towards me.

Until now.

* * *

Did you think I fell in the shower and drowned? :o)

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	33. Chapter 33

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**BPOV**

Edward's quiet today.

He never interrupts as I read aloud from the textbook. His answers are scrawled across the blanks in his own workbook. The handwriting is wide and loopy, elegant and sure, written by deft, thoughtful fingers. Those fingers … they're long and move with precision with everything he does: flipping the pages of the Bible, running them carelessly through his unruly, rust-colored hair, absently stroking the scruff on his chin.

I blush as he raises a questioning brow. I haven't even realized I've ceased speaking in my enthrallment with his fingers, with his movements. Clearing my throat, I quickly glance down at the textbook and begin reading again, feeling slightly off-kilter by his silence. During our last visit I confessed that I felt things for him, things that I continue to not quite understand.

Then I spoke of my mother, of how she hates him, which is the truth. Although the police investigation proved that Edward wasn't speeding that dreary rainy day, my mother refuses to believe it. She blames him … but I guess we all have blame someone when life goes awry. We blame others … we blame ourselves.

Edward quietly answers a few questions, reading his answers aloud as we finish the subject of forgiveness. I feel a weight lifted from my chest. I'm anxious to move on to another subject. Hopefully it will be a lighter one.

"Is something wrong?" I ask Edward, glancing over his shoulder at Seth, the guard, who's slumped in his chair in the corner with his eyes fluttering sleepily.

Edward nods, then takes a deep breath as he begins to speak.

"I've been thinking about our last conversation …"

Dread curls in my stomach. I learned long ago to never get my hopes up, to never have high expectations out of life. I should have known to hang on to that belief, because I see nothing but rejection in Edward's piercing green eyes.

"I understand," I interrupt, gathering my things, my skin on fire.

"I don't think you do."

Those long fingers wrap around my wrist ever so gently. My eyes travel from his hand and to his face. The rejection is no longer there. There's a struggle in his eyes. It's a struggle for understanding.

"We should ease into this. You said you want to take things slow, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Your mother … maybe she'll be more understanding of our friendship if we slowly ease into it."

"Is that what this is, Edward? A friendship?"

Confusion plays in his eyes, then slowly turns into a soft forlornness.

"I won't disrupt your life anymore than I already have. Your mother … she's your mother. I won't get between the two of you. So, we'll be friends. For now."

My wrist remains ensnared in those fingers. His thumb presses against the vein that runs on the inside of my wrist.

"Your heart's beating so fast," he murmurs, running his finger across my skin.

"I'm surprised it's beating at all," I mumble, breaking free from his grasp, and ignoring the sadness etched across his face.

* * *

My laptop crashed to the ground, thus explaining my absence this week. Good thing I married a handyman (even if it's his fault it broke in the first place) ... a handyman whom has informed me that Lester's name is supposed to be 'Chester.' Chester, Chester, the child molester. *facepalm* Now he thinks I don't pay attention to anything he says (I don't). Oh, well. I'll fix it one day. :O)

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	34. Chapter 34

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**BPOV**

"I'm not trying to upset you."

His voice is quiet. Thoughtful. And I know. I know he's not trying to hurt me, but still.

"This was a mistake," I mutter, shaking my head. "I don't know what's come over me. I thought, I mean. I felt something that I've never felt before. Not even ... and … I went with it. I'm so stupid."

"Stop," he begs, standing.

Seth's eyes come alive. He's suddenly awake, and awkward as he watches Edward's lanky frame stand tall, rising from where he's perched on the gray, metal chair. Seth's unsure eyes dart from Edward and back to me as he silently contemplates interrupting our unethical exchange.

"Will you come back?" he asks, his voice full of panic.

I swallow the guilty knot, because I've thought about it. In the past dozen or so minutes I've thought about leaving and not returning to this dreadful place. I'm embarrassed and ashamed of putting myself out there. And angry. I'm so angry that he's said the things he's said to me, touched me, made me _believe_ something only to back off. He's hot and cold and I'm on fire. I'm burning for the first time in two years. I feel alive.

"I told you I'd come back," I muttered, forcing back the tears. "I always keep my promises."

He says nothing as I leave the room. He's silent and I'm struggle to stop the gasps, not sucking in a good breath until my feet exit the building.

The tears don't fall until I'm in the parking lot, cursing my car door that just doesn't want to cooperate with my armload of books. They slip to the ground, the pages now soaked and tarnished with the recent rain water that's pooled in the cracked potholes of the parking lot.

I sniff and dry my eyes, muttering under my breath about talking to _someone_ about the horrible condition of the parking lot. Tossing my books in the backseat of the car, I slide quietly inside and stare at the building. I stare at the building where the beautiful, broken man dwells. I'll return to this building in a few days, just as I promised. I'll return with my heart no longer on my shoulder. I'll guard it more carefully from here on out.

Little do I know that when I do return to the county jail … Edward will no longer be there.

* * *

Oh, no. Where's Edward?

Beautiful banner made by Nicia. Thank you.

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	35. Chapter 35

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**BPOV**

The torrid clouds hang overhead in a smoldering gray mass. The sky is etched in lightning, streaking across the sky. I fight with my old umbrella, silently willing it to open without a fuss. The metallic, skeletal frame on the inside doesn't want to cooperate, and the wind is its willing partner.

Stumbling down the sidewalk from my home, I abandon my struggle with the inanimate object. I allow the whipping wind and pelting rain to beat against me as I slide into my car, cutting off the storm outside with the swift movement of my door.

I'm jittery today. My hands shake as I cling to the steering wheel, carefully pulling from the drive. It's been days, just a handful of days, but still_ days_ … since I last had a drink.

It took everything within me to reach out to someone after my mother ignored my quiet plea for help. Swallowing my pride, I called Dr. Gerandy, the man who treated me for anxiety after the wreck. He penciled me in for a rushed appointment, much to my relief.

"The panic attacks you had after losing your loved ones won't be much different from the ones you may experience now that you've decided to stop drinking," he said, on the fateful day of my office visit. "Are you a heavy drinker, Isabella? Be honest."

"I drink every day."

"How much?"

I hesitantly explained how much I drank, and how often during the day I did so. He nodded and murmured, carefully explaining the weaning process, then thankfully dismissing my question of in-house treatment.

"We can try this without rehab, but if this doesn't work … that's the next step. Do you understand?" he asked, his pale, watery eyes speaking volumes behind his thick spectacles. "You coming forward and asking for help speaks volumes."

I nodded and took the written prescription which he ripped from his pad. The brown bottle full of benzodiazepines, or 'peace pills' as Dr. Gerandy had so jokingly called them, now rest inside my leather purse, along with a handful of pamphlets Dr. Gerandy pressed into my hands. The pills help with the tremors and the anxiety, but they don't alleviate the constant burning at the back of my throat. It's a never-ending thirst that I just can't quench, and I wonder if the desire will fade over time, or if it will continue to plague me for the rest of my days.

I'm drawn from my thoughts at the sight of the jail. The building matches the sky. It's dark, forlorn, and edged with sadness. I gather my new bag, the one that's filled with my Bible and dog-eared workbooks.

Darting through the rain, I smile at a woman emerging from the building. She holds the door, but doesn't return my smile. She's busily engaged with her teenage son, pulling him from the building by his ear, and loudly cursing him for his new DUI she's having to pay for. An officer chuckles at the expression on my face as I pull my clinging hair away from my neck, then pencil my name into the visitor's log.

The air in the lobby is cool and unnerving, and it's much too quiet. The tap, tap, tap of my foot against the metal leg of the chair in front of me is the only sound. That and the heavy sighs of the bored female officer behind the desk. A door opens and I smile broadly at Seth's familiar face, but the smile quickly fades at his somber expression. He's wary. His dark eyes travel my facial features as I stand and cross the room. I'm silent as I gaze at him expectantly.

"You're ministering to a new inmate today," he explains.

"Wh … what about Edward?" I ask, the concern in my voice lost on no one within easy earshot.

Seth gives me a dry smile, then says, "He's gone. Left the same day you were here. Just after you left, as a matter of fact."

I stand in stunned silence, a mouthful of words tilting on the edge of my tongue. They're not only words, but questions. Who bailed him out? Where did he go? Do you know where he lives? Doesn't he have to return for court? When _is_ court?

But I ask none of these questions. There's only one question of importance now.

"Did he leave a message for me ...to where he's going or how to get in touch with him?"

Seth's silence is the only answer I need.

* * *

I promise they will be together again soon. A lot. I beg for your patience, and hope it's worth it. :o)

Beautiful banner made by Nicia. Thank you.

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	36. Chapter 36

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**BPOV**

With a heavy heart, I follow Seth back to that little, gray room. The room should feel wider now ... more roomy, now that he's gone. But it doesn't. It's smaller, if that's somehow possible. The air is suffocating, choking me and my weakening spirit … what little spirit remains.

I try to focus on my hands … my hands and the shakes, but all I can think of is _him_. Why didn't he leave me a message? Does he think so little of me that he doesn't care to disappoint me? Hurt me?

I fight back the tears as I pull the Bible and workbooks from my bag. This is silly. I feel silly and small and ridiculous for allowing myself to fall for this man, only for him to so easily walk out of my life.

But really … what did I expect?

I ask myself that question, unconcerned with the sound of shuffling feet as Seth returns with a new inmate. What did I really expect to happen? Did I expect Edward to post bail, pick me up for a date, then sweep me off my feet? It could never be that easy. Nothing about our lives or our situation was that easy.

Edward did the right thing. He understood that this ... thing between us ... could never go any further past these four walls. The decision he made wasn't a selfish one. He did it for _me_ … for us. It was a decision to escape further hurt from the ones we love … from everyone, really.

"Ms. Swan?"

I glance up and meet the smiling, placid-blue eyes of a man who looks to be in his early twenties. The blonde hair on his head is a pitiful mess of limp, once halfway-decently arranged spikes. His enthusiasm at my presence should be contagious, but instead I'm leery of it. I'm leery of it and of the smile on his childlike face.

"Or should I call you_ 'Bella! Oh, Bella! You taste so good … so beautiful!"_

I'm sure my eyes widen with horror as I watch this man moan my name, then begin gyrating his hips. He pumps the air, his face drawn in eerie ecstasy. My stomach churns at his antics, and I let out a startled gasp as Seth slams him against the table in front of me.

The inmate's face twists in pain. A sliver of blood paints his face, trailing from the corner of his mouth from his newly acquired busted lip.

"Hey, man. Take it easy," the inmate grumbles. "I'm just showing Ms. Swan what I've heard every night from Cullen … every fucking night since he first met her. I haven't had any good rest since you started showing up here!"

I'm gathering my things before his words even settle in. The tremors have increased, and I find myself dropping my Bible three times before I manage to slip it inside the bag. A quiet apology concerning my abrupt departure is murmured through my pursed lips as I excuse myself. I return a nod as Seth bids me farewell. His eyes dwell on my heated cheeks, and his hands remain on the inmate's restrained form.

"Tell Cullen Mike says 'hi' for me, will ya?" the inmate barks out with a laugh as I step from the room.

I suck in the fresh air as soon as I escape the suffocating confines of the jail.

The rain has stopped.

The relentless pelting disappeared. The sun hangs high in the sky and the clouds part, casting that rare post-shower sunshow on the slick roads. My mind and body is numb as I drive home. My hands leave the steering wheel occasionally to sip from the bottle of water I keep nearby. There's so many empty bottles littering my my car.

It's a new addiction.

The numbness ebs away as Mike's stomach-churning display flashes through my mind. It's obvious Edward dreamed of me while in jail … and those dreams … those dreams.

That's as far as my mind travels. As I climb the small, steep incline of hill near my house my jaw goes slack. The bottle of water slips from my fingertips. The cool fluid soaks through my already dampened dress, causing the material to cling to my skin.

A white pickup truck is parked on the side of the road near my front yard. A lean, lanky fellow with rusty-colored hair sits on the wide steps leading to my home. His elbows rest on his knees … his hands are tugging at his hair. He's staring at the ground as he tugs, muttering to himself. The clothing he wears is no longer orange. The fabric of his jeans is soft, worn. The white tee he wears hugs his upper body, exposing the sharp planes of muscles lying beneath. Paint-splattered work boots grace his feet.

This man is beautiful … and he's sitting on my steps. His head lifts. His piercing green eyes raise as well, and now stare at my slowly moving vehicle as I pull timidly up the drive.

* * *

Thank you to those of you who nominated me for a handful of awards at the TwiFic Fandom awards. Not only am I up for a few awards, but my collab account with Jonesn, known as 'JonesnInDaHood,' is up for voting, too. Go vote for your favorites, if you feel so inclined.

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	37. Chapter 37

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**BPOV**

The drive and walkway in front of my home is a dark stain, evidence of the rainstorm that has since parted ways with the lush, green, Kentucky countryside. Droplets of water rest of blades of grass. The sun filters in through the departing wisps of smoky-gray clouds. The door of my car gently closes beside me. My purse strap rests on my right shoulder.

Yet, I feel none of this … I see none of this.

All I see is him, Edward, sitting on those cold, hard, damp steps leading into my home. I see him and the dilemma on his face; the uncertainty of the decision he has made, being here at my home and away from the monitored confines of the county jail.

The expression never melts from his face, not even as I approach him, the damp air filled with the sound of our mutually bewildered breaths. It remains in place as I pause just inches from those paint-spattered boots, vaguely reminding me of the shutters in front of my home that are in dire need of a touch-up.

"You weren't there."

They're my words that are spoken, causing him to raise his eyebrows, that trepidation ebbing away from his face and replaced with something entirely different. I'm not sure why my statement surprises him so. Did he expect some other words to fill the humid air? Did he expect me to uncaring of his disappearing act?

"No, I left," he finally speaks up, pushing himself from the steps.

He's suddenly close; very close. The hum of his warm body radiates from him, and I want to step away from it. I want to flee from this man, and from the strange emotions that have been brewing in my mind.

But, for one of the few few times in my newly rediscovered life … I don't run from adversity.

Because it's a lie. I'm lying to my heart by trying to convince myself that I should rebuke these feelings he's stirred up inside of me.

"I bailed out yesterday," he admits, his minty breath washing over me. "I came by here this morning hoping to see you before you left for the jail, but I got lost. I've never been on this side of town before. I would have stopped by last night, but I thought you'd find it inappropriate … me ... stopping by … so late at night. I didn't want you to think … I mean …"

Edward's voice wanders off, his cheeks tinting slightly. He watches the whirling storm of emotions clouding my face, never looking away, never easing up on the intensity of his stare.

How could I ever deny this man … this dusty ray of sunshine who's managed to filter his way through the torrid rain clouds of my dismal life? What can I say, other than ...

"Would you like to come inside?"

* * *

**Word prompt - dusty ray**. Why? 'Cause that's my middle child's name, and he's a sick boy today. Sick with a stomach bug on Halloween ... what can be worse for a nine-year old?

I'll be AWOL for the majority of November ... writing a novel for NaNo. I'll try to update as often as humanly possible, which translates to probably three times a week (*crosses fingers*). Things will return normal again near the beginning of December.

If NaNo doesn't kill me.

As usual, thanks for reading. I heart you all so very hard.

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	38. Chapter 38

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**EPOV**

I step back as Bella fishes her keys from her purse. I give her an encouraging smile, and she timidly smiles in return. The sound of metal clanging to the ground causes us to both falter as she drops the keys, bending to reach for them the exact same time as I do.

We're stooping near one another, our hands just inches apart, fingers dangling in the air. There's a shift in the muggy air as the two of us silently gape at one another, so close that her warm, sweet breath washes over me.

Being so close to her, so very near this beautiful woman, causes me to notice things about her for the first time. Bella's lips are full with only a slight dip in the center of the top one, the bottom one fuller than the top. There's a sprinkling of freckles dotting her cheeks, and those cheeks … her cheeks tint as she nervously giggles.

I'm sure I've never used the word 'cute' in any fucking context.

Ever.

But, this giggle … this nervous laughter she fails to smother with one, delicate hand … it's cute.

I'm so screwed.

A strand of silky, dark hair falls in front of her eyes with the shift of the wind. Before I think about it, before I can fully comprehend the action, my fingers are lingering near her face. The giggles fade away as she quietly gasps, her eyes round and unblinking as I tuck the strand behind one graceful ear. The tips of my fingers brush against the shell of her ear, then her cheek … so smooth, so soft, so warm and now a brilliant shade of pink.

Bella snatches the keys from the ground, then stands in one swift movement. I stand upright as well, running my fingers through my hair, inadvertently taking a step back as my heart thunders against my chest.

I'm such a fuck up.

"Where are you going?" she abruptly questions, quickly turning and fumbling with the keys.

I don't speak immediately, unsure of myself and my intentions.

Can I do this?

Can I be her friend?

This is all I have to offer … my friendship. I mulled over Mike's words while incarcerated, then came to the conclusion that any relationship with Bella other than friendship will only cause problems for her.

I've caused enough problems for Bella Swan.

Intentional or not.

"I, uh, wasn't sure if you still …"

"You like coffee?"

She interrupts my uncertainty, opening the door to her home and gazing over her shoulder.

So beautiful.

I nod and follow her inside, hesitating as I enter the foyer, my eyes drinking in the interior of her home. She shuts the door behind me, then gestures for me to follow her into the kitchen.

I take it all in as I follow her: the high, vaulted ceilings, the state-of-the-art appliances. I knew from the moment I pulled into her driveway that Bella … or her late husband, was loaded. The house is as enticing, beautiful and utterly intimidating.

It's just as overwhelming as the woman standing in front of the coffee maker.

"How do you take your coffee?"

It's a simple question … one than can easily be answered.

Bella turns and quirks an eyebrow at my silence as I pull a chair from the kitchenette and take a seat.

"How do you think I take it?"

Bella studies me for a moment, those endlessly engulfing eyes not missing a thing as I force myself into a relaxed position: legs outstretched, my body slightly slumped in the carved, wooden chair.

I'm not relaxed.

I'm anything other than relaxed.

I'm nervous … nervous and clueless and denying myself the urge … the urge to gaze around the room more thoroughly, searching for some sort of signs of her previous life.

I've seen none.

No photos on the walls or shelves, no momento of a life once lived … nothing besides decorative paintings, vases, pottery and antique china.

"Why do I feel like this is some sort of test?" she asks with a smirk, the strong scent of coffee swirling through the air.

"Because it is," I reply, grinning.

I can do this.

I can act like this being inside this house, this house she once shared with her husband and child, isn't smothering me …

I can pull this off.

"Hmm … black?" she guesses, tapping her finger against her chin as she thinks aloud.

"Nope," I respond, laughing at her shocked expression. "Does that surprise you?"

"Kinda," she says with a smug grin. "I've heard that people who take their coffee black tend to be … moody."

"Moody?" I ask, clutching my chest in a faux hurt. "You think I'm moody?"

Bella laughs, her eyes twinkling.

"I've also heard they're more closed off when it comes to trying new things," she continues, gazing at me expectantly.

The tables have turned … my teasing game has suddenly become something more.

I rub the scruff on my jaw as I ponder her words, absently cursing myself in the back of my mind for not shaving. For some reason she seems almost fascinated by the way I rub my face, but easily shakes it off once she notices my intense stare.

"I can be moody, I guess," I tell her with a shrug, leaning forward in the chair and dropping my elbows on my knees. "And, you're right. I usually take my coffee black, but today … today I'll take a little cream, and a whole lot of sugar."

* * *

I've missed y'all :(

Thanks for all the well-wishes for my son. He's feeling much better and was able to return to school today.

NaNo (for those who asked), is National Novel Writing Month. I'm making my goal word count so far! Wish me luck that it continues.

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	39. Chapter 39

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

**EPOV**

A light, pink blush spreads across the smallest hint of glorious cleavage exposed near the dip of Bella's shirt. The tinted color spreads up her neck, then burns across her cheeks as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and busies herself with the coffee. I tilt my head to the side, watching as she not once, but twice, drops a spoon.

Interesting.

My words weren't meant to be taken as a sexual innuendo … I was simply hinting at change. I seek a change, a change from the man I thought myself to be.

I want to be the man she thinks I am … someone worthy of forgiveness.

Still, it's fascinating watching her reaction, seeing the nervousness my words inflict in her, and I wonder … I wonder if I've made the wrong decision, agreeing to just be friends with this beautiful woman.

I want no trouble for Bella. Mike's words are forever etched in my mind. Bella and I not only come from two very different worlds, but many people point fingers in my direction, blaming me for the death of her family.

But not her. She wants me just as badly as I want her.

The longer I sit here and ponder the word 'friendship' the longer I realize this isn't going to work. I can't just be her friend. I can't drop by her house and have coffee with her and make mundane conversation about the weather and shit.

I _need_ her.

She wants to go slow … I can take it slow.

I can take things very slow.

Fuck everyone else.

I'm ready to live.

To live ... and I'm ready to do so with her in my life, every step of the way.

Bella's swift movement across the kitchen pulls me from my thoughts. She opens the pantry, searching a high shelf for something as she strains to reach up.

"Need some help?" I offer, smiling to myself.

I'm being a gentleman … asking if she needs a hand, right?

A gentleman.

"The sugar canister is empty," she explains, cringing as she accidentally knocks a can of tomato soup to the floor. "I know there's an extra bag in here somewhere."

I stand and cross the room, hyper-aware of the way her body stills as I approach her. The heat from her small, curvy frame radiates between us. My body is now only inches from hers. I can smell the rain in her hair, and the scent of a summer shower on her skin. Reaching on the top shelf, I easily find the bag of sugar and hand it to her.

Those big, dark eyes are staring up at me. That full, bottom lip is wedged between her teeth. She's timid, uncertain, but there's something there.

There's something there.

"You make me nervous," she whispers, clinging to the bag. "When you're near me … I feel like a bomb ready to explode."

"I'm sorry," I mumble, the weight of her words twisting my gut. "I'll leave."

I turn to walk away, sickened by her confession, but the sound of something heavy hitting the ground causes me to turn. Suddenly, she's touching me, twisting my damp shirt between her fingers, tugging my clothes in an attempt to bring me back to where I stood, to put me back in place so very near her. My shirt rides up, and I shiver at the cool rush of air against my skin. And she's still biting that lip, but no longer timid.

She looks ravenous.

"It's not a bad type of nervousness," she quietly admits, dropping her hungry eyes.

I nod, then touch her chin, tilting her head up, and forcing her to look at me. There's a sharp intake of breath when I touch her, and I want to kiss her. I've never wanted to kiss a woman so badly in my life.

"I feel the same way … and I feel other things as well. You know what things I'm talking about, don't you, Bella?"

"Yes," she whispers, on the verge of tears.

"I can be your friend," I lie, hoping my voice sounds as convincing to her as it does to myself. "I can be just your friend."

Bella nods, then releases the twisted knot of shirt between her fingers. She beings to step away, my fingers slipping from her chin, but I lightly grasp her arm, forcing her to pause.

"Friends can hug, right?"

Bella's eyes go wide, but she nods. There's no movement on her part. It's just her, gazing up at me with startled eyes and pink cheeks, waiting on me to take the lead.

And I do.

I pull her into my arms, cradling the back of her neck as she tucks her head beneath my chin. I smile, burying my nose in her hair and breathing it in as she gingerly winds her arms around my waist. I hold her body in my arms, relishing how enticing, how utterly delicate and feminine she feels pressed against me.

Then her hands trail up my chest, and her arms drape around my neck, almost as though we're dancing. I grip her waist, then move my fingers to the small of her back, lightly groaning as my fingertips find a bare expanse of skin.

"It's been a long time since I've been held by a man."

Bella's voice is low and husky, and I smirk, happy she can't see my face from where she rests her head.

I can do this.

I can act like a friend.

_Act_.

It's all an act, and not just on my part. Bella's sultry voice … and her nipples, her hardened nipples pressing against the thin cotton of my shirt tell me all I need to know.

We'll never be 'just friends.'

* * *

Reviews = cookies. Well, if I had any. Okay, I do have some, but I'm totes eating them all! Nom, nom, nom!


	40. Chapter 40

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**We Are Broken**

* * *

BPOV

Edward's here, in my house, wrapped in my arms.

He says we'll be friends, and I agree, but it doesn't feel like we're just friends.

It doesn't feel like friendship, this hum of energy between us, the evidence of my arousal pressed against his chest, the evidence of his digging into my belly.

It feels wrong, having this man in my house, the very same house my husband built for me, him, and our son.

But, then again, it feels so right. Through the guilt and the confusion, the tangled web of conflict and impending judgment of others ... it feels natural being held by this man.

Fitting.

Comforting.

I meld into him as though I were made for this very purpose, my body crafted to rest nestled in his arms. I know we're both lying to one another, lying to ourselves. I know we'll never be friends.

There's a line, an invisible line twisted around my heart, and tied neatly around his. I feel it pulling and tugging, drawing me near. I'll get sucked in soon, I know it.

I'm already sucked in.

I'm the first one to pull away, leaving his reluctant arms. My body is overheated, warm from his touch. I tingle in places that I've somehow forgotten existed, and the want outweighs the guilt. I'm miserable, stirring cream and sugar in my own coffee, watching his lanky form slip into a chair.

Edward smiles, sipping his coffee. He doesn't hide his roaming eyes. His mouth says 'friends' but his body tells me so much more, from the darkening of his eyes, the swelling in his jeans, to the heat of his skin. The two of us are live wires, one just as affected as the other. My body is a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode.

Clearing my throat, and shaking myself from my thoughts, I join him at the table. Crossing my legs, my stomach flips as his eyes dwindle on the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips, then devour my breasts. I struggle to bring his attention away from my body, before I do something drastic.

Like devour his mouth.

Straddle his lap.

Dig my fingers into his flesh.

"Want a tour of the house?"

These words cause him to tear his eyes away from my tits. The darkness fades, replaced by a nervous light.

"Are you sure? Is that okay?"

"Yeah," I tell him softly, honestly. "Do you want to?"

Edward nods, giving me an encouraging smile.

I lead him around the main floor, pointing out various objects. There's pottery I picked up on trips to Nevada, throws my grandmother hand-knitted while I was a child. My voice carries throughout the house as I climb the steps to the second floor, my heart fluttering in my chest. I pause near the banister, glancing haphazardly down the hall.

Why did I bring him here?

Will he think ...

"What's this room?" he asks, smiling as he picks up my nervousness, leading me away from the cracked door revealing my bedroom.

"Wait," I gasp, but it's too late.

Edward stands in front of my baby's bedroom, his eyes wide, his face a ghastly pallor. The sight of this man, whom I so blatantly blamed at one point for murdering my family, standing near my baby's room is ... unnerving, surreal, a dream infused with a nightmare.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, dropping his eyes. "I didn't think, I mean, it didn't register ..."

"It's okay," I lie, avoiding his guilt-laced eyes. "I didn't think either."

We stand there, awkward, unspeaking for several minutes. Just staring.

"Do you ever go in?"

I shake my head, a tremble settling into my bones at the very thought.

"Not in two years," I admit, the corners of my eyes pricking with tears. "I try to pretend it's not there ... if it doesn't exist, maybe it wasn't real."

Edward nods, glancing hesitantly between me and the bedroom. He says nothing more. He doesn't have to, but he does offer his hand, nodding towards the bedroom.

And I take it. I take his large, rough hand in mine, absently mindful of the worn thumb rubbing comforting, controlled circles on my soft flesh. He languidly guides me into the bedroom, my son's bedroom.

I let him. I let him take me into the bedroom with the airplanes suspended from blue, painted skies. I let him hold me when I crumble, sobbing at the framed portrait of me, Eric, and Ben that's propped on the little, white dresser, the frame covered in a fine coating of dust. I let him rub feather light circles on my back. I let him kiss my forehead, feeling a wetness of tears fall from his cheeks.

I let him console me ... console me in a way no one else has done since that fateful day, the day the two of us lost so much, the day we gained something new.

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Three am update ... fom my phone, because I promised three a week and I'm trying. I'm really trying. I just hope the updates are worthy to be read, and not thrown together. I heart you all.

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	41. Chapter 41

_Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. They belong to Stephenie Meyer. This plot belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended_.

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**We Are Broken**

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**BPOV**

"Why do you do this?" he asks, his lips brushing against my forehead. "Why do you stay in this house, and avoid this room if it makes you so sad?"

"Because it's all I have left of them," I confess, my voice a weak whisper.

He pulls me tighter against his body, lightly massaging my scalp with his fingertips with one hand, the other placed lightly on the small of my back. It's a different embrace than before. The embrace we shared in the kitchen was dizzying, breathtaking, soul-binding. This one is morose, and gut-wrenching. The kind of clinging embrace that drains my soul of existence, pulling me from my body, and wringing out what little life I have left in me.

"Because it makes me stronger, being here, facing my fears, " I continue, breathing in a shuddering gasp. "At least that's what my mother says. Facing our fears makes us stronger. Weak people run from their problems."

Edward's arms stiffen around my body at my robotic words. I've repeated them so many times that they've become practiced, stale, dry.

"Starting a new life doesn't make you weak," he murmurs, lifting his chin from atop my head. He tilts my chin up, staring deeply into my eyes. "You deserve happiness."

I hesitantly glance around the room, taking in the bookshelf crammed with Little Golden books, the rocking chair in the corner, the very same rocking chair my mother rocked me in when I was a child. Fat tuffs of clouds are painted along the sky-blue walls. Emerald-green grass sprouts up from the baseboards, in thin wisps of paint.

"I don't want to forget," I whisper. "But, I don't want to remember either. Does that make sense? Am I making any sense?"

Edward nods, giving me a tender smile.

"You're making perfect sense."

I return his smile, then take one last look around the room.

There's memories in this room, memories of me rocking Ben to sleep at night, pressing my lips against the crown of his head, dreaming about his future. I still feel the tickle of his silky, black hair against my face. The scent of baby powder still hangs in the air.

"I don't want to run, but I can't live like this anymore," I confess, gnawing on the corner of my bottom lip. "I can't keep avoiding this room, but I can't keep it the way it is. He's not coming home. He's never coming home."

Tears prick the corners of my eyes, then spill over. Memories flood my mind, memories of the phone call I received the day my family passed away, memories of the funeral, memories of the hate I felt towards the very same man holding me now. The hate smothered the guilt for a while, until it didn't. The guilt shared the emptiness that infiltrated my heart, and then ... and then there was Edward, entering my life again in an entirely different way.

I no longer feel quite so empty inside.

"Would it make me a horrible person if I took all this down? Put it away? Turned this room into something else?"

"No," he replies, giving me a relieved smile. "That would make you human."

I breathe a sigh of relief, then worry envelopes me again.

"I guess I'll need to hire someone ... someone to help me paint, move furniture ..."

My mind reels as I think of all the things that need to be done, things I've never had to do for myself before.

Edward's red-rimmed eyes come to life. A slow, creeping grin peaks across his face, pushing the clouds away.

"I know the perfect guy for the job," he murmurs, eyes darting across my face.

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